my soul from out that shadow
by EFAW
Summary: To get through law school, Wesley Mitchell worked as a hitman. Now, a decade later, his past is coming back to haunt him. Hitman!AU. Wesvis. Oneshot.


**Summary: **To get through law school, Wesley Mitchell worked as a hitman. Now, a decade later, his past is coming back to haunt him. Hitman!AU. Wesvis. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Death of a minor character. AU. Wesvis. Some swearing.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**Based on a truly spectacular prompt by **mizufallsfromkumo**, because mizu always seems to have the best prompts. I know it's not exactly what you envisioned, mizu, but I hope you like it anyway.**

**Enjoy!**

**OOOO**

**my soul from out that shadow**

"_So you can trust me when I tell you, you pull that trigger, and two men die. The guy you kill…and the guy you used to be."_

—_Eliot Spencer_

**XXXX**

_Inhale._

He sets his case down with a gentle, audible _thunk_, but there's no one around to hear it. Just plastic sheets flapping in the breeze.

_Exhale._

He kneels by the window, watching the building before him. The people are little more than shadows moving from up here.

_Inhale._

Gloved hands move on automatic, assembling the pieces. From the case he pulls out one bullet, sliding it home. He's not going to miss.

_Exhale._

He props the rifle on the windowsill, presses his eye to the scope. Everything jumps into focus, and suddenly the shadows in the building are people, have faces. He starts following them, moving from window to window as he searches.

_Inhale._

A woman in a navy blue power suit, striding down the hall with purpose in her step. No.

_Exhale._

A man in a janitor's uniform, pushing a mop bucket in front of him. No.

_Inhale. _

An elderly couple, heads together as they look at the paper in their hands. No.

A group of teenage girls with iphones, all talking and gesticulating at once. No. No. No.

A man in a white dress shirt, pacing behind a podium, addressing a crowd.

Yes.

_Hold._

He follows the pacing figure, watching, watching, waiting.

The man pauses behind the podium, points at a member of the audience.

_Exhale._

Breathe out, slow and steady, and pull the trigger. There's a retort and the kick of the rifle, and the man behind the podium falls to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.

Pandemonium erupts.

**XXXX**

"Sniper. Cool. I don't think we've ever had one of these."

Wes blinked, shook his head. He glanced over at Travis, crouched next to the body of Franco Montalbo. "Wow, Travis, could you _be _more disrespectful?"

His partner scowled up at him. "Hey, man, aren't you tired of the muggings we keep getting? A good sniping every now and then livens things up."

"You are disturbed," Wes said, pulling on gloves as he crouched on the other side of the body.

"Oh, come on, Wes," Travis cajoled, "our last four cases have been muggings. This is new! Doesn't it get your blood pumping? We've finally stopped being punished."

One pale eyebrow went up. "Punished?"

"Punished." Travis nodded sharply. "Cap's still pissed about that thing with the squad car."

Wes rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's it. The captain is conspiring to give us only mugging cases because he's pissed about something that happened two weeks ago." Carefully, Wes tilted the dead man's head to the side. "Don't be stupid."

"Whatever, man, I'm excited." Travis wiggled, like a puppy. Then he frowned. "Unless this turns into a serial sniper type thing, like the Beltway Sniper. That wouldn't be cool."

"Doubtful," Wes said absently, "this looks like a professional job." He couldn't have explained his reasons, not without going into more detail than he felt comfortable with, but he was sure on this one.

Travis blinked at him. "What, like a hit?"

Another eye roll. "No, I was talking about his dry cleaning. Yes I mean a hit."

"Dude, you have got to tell me how you came up with that one," Travis scoffed, sitting back on his heels. "I mean, yeah, it's a sniper kill, but that doesn't necessarily mean 'hitman'. Maybe this guy's brother is an ex-marine sniper who's still pissed about something that happened when they were ten."

"Really?" Wes stared at his partner. "You hear the word sniper and you automatically go to 'ex-marine brother'? What are the odds of that being the case?"

Travis shrugged. "I've got one."

"Of course you do." Wes rolled his eyes, climbing to his feet. "I'm telling you, this was a professional job. We find the sniper's nest, I'll prove it."

Travis followed suit, stepping over the dead man to look at the bank of windows. He grimaced. "Man, it's gonna take all day to search those buildings. I say we call a bunch of newbies and let them canvas the area."

"We're not calling a bunch of rookies," Wes retorted in his _Are you purposely doing this or are you just plain stupid? _voice. He unkindly shoved Travis to the side. "Okay, this guy's, what, 6'2", 6'3"? Say he was standing where he fell, that puts the shot like…" He held up his arms, right hand up by his cheek, left hand stretched out in front of him, index fingers extended to make a line.

Ignoring Travis's gaze, Wes muttered under his breath, calculations running through his head. "Wind was up half an hour ago so…_mutter mutter _velocity…height of…angle…thickness of glass…" He shifted his weight, focusing on a brown building.

Clucking his tongue triumphantly, Wes dropped his hands, pointing to the brown brick building across the street. "That one, corner room. Seventh floor, no higher than the eighth."

He looked down to find Travis staring at him in stunned silence, and he frowned. "What?"

"You just pull this stuff out of your ass, don't you?" Travis gaped.

Wes bristled. "I do not." When Travis made no move, Wes crossed his arms, glaring challengingly. "Twenty bucks says we find something up there."

A light sparked in Travis's eyes. "Forty."

"Twenty bucks and the loser buys lunch."

"You're on." Travis hopped down from the stage, waving to a few uniforms. "You two, secure the scene. You two, with us." He grinned at Wes. "I think I'll pick somewhere expensive for lunch when I win."

"You wish," Wes smiled back, but his heart wasn't in it.

**XXXX**

A flash of their badges got them to the seventh floor without any trouble. The corner room facing the convention hall was under construction, which made it perfect for a sniper to sneak in.

Travis ducked under a piece of plastic, and then he cursed. Wes followed his glare—in a neat path through the sawdust was a pair of footprints.

"It doesn't mean anything," Travis declared, "could be anything. Construction worker who wants a smoke."

"Uh-huh," Wes said, following the trail. It led directly to the window, where a small space had been cleared in the dust. Most telling, though, was the bullet casing sitting upright on the windowsill, like a sign.

"Holy shit." Travis peered at the casing, hands behind his back so he wouldn't disturb this new part of the crime scene. "We've got a casing…and it looks like there're marks on the sill, like some sort of bipod stand was resting here." He slanted a sideways glance Wes's way. "How the _hell_ did you do that?"

Wes stepped up to the window. There was a perfect view of the park, and almost dead-center was the window where he could see their crime scene, outlined by yellow tape.

_Inhale. Exhale._

He tightened his hands behind his back. "Unlike _some_ people, Travis, I actually stay awake during FBI seminars."

"Hey, those seminars were made to put people to sleep!" Travis protested. "I think that's what they were actually testing, not how well we know rifle specs and bomb diffusion."

He straightened, following Wes's gaze to the crime scene down below. "Still, man," he said, pulling two crumpled tens out of his pocket and handing them to Wes. "That's some Rain Man shit right there. I'm a little freaked out."

"It's just math," Wes said absently, pocketing the bills. He turned away from the window, took a deep breath in and held it. "Of course, we know you're no good at math. That's why I won the sharpshooting competition when we met."

"You won on a technicality, man," Travis argued, following him. "We all know the real winner of that thing was me."

"And yet I'm the one with my name on a trophy." Wes gestured for the two officers who accompanied them to stand guard. "Come on, let's get the photographers up here and see if anyone noticed anything."

**XXXX**

No one noticed anything. Wes wasn't too surprised. Travis was annoyed.

"What a pain," Travis grumbled, stomping up the stairs. "We finally get an interesting case, and no one saw anything. Not the concierge in the lobby, not the doorman, nothing!"

Wes followed him up. "He probably came disguised, Travis, and I doubt he announced his presence as a sniper. That would defeat the purpose a little."

Travis crested the stairs, emerging onto the seventh floor again. "What_ever_. I just hope the crime scene guys found something we can use. First interesting case we've gotten, I'd hate to run into a dead end."

They entered the corner room, and a crime scene photographer immediately came up.

"We found something," she announced, and Travis shot Wes a blinding grin. Wes rolled his eyes.

They followed her through the dust and plastic hangings to the opposite end of the room. "Here it is," she said, but she didn't need to. It was obvious what they'd found.

There, painted on the wall, was a stylized raven, all sweeping lines and sharp points.

Wes went cold.

**XXXX**

They returned from an aborted attempt to talk to Montalbo's widow to find the squad room a scene of chaos.

There were at least four federal agents in suits moving through the room, pinning papers to boards and commandeering the conference room. The lead agent was in Sutton's office, gesticulating wildly.

Travis grabbed Amy's arm as she passed. "Hey, what's going on?"

"So get this." Amy grinned. "Your sniper, he left that big-ass raven thing, right? Apparently it's the symbol of some huge ring of hitmen. These agents are part of the nation-wide task force."

Wes's face drained of color, but neither of his co-workers noticed.

"Seriously?" Travis crowed. "That's so cool!" Then like flipping a switch, he went from elated to annoyed. "But of course the feds would swoop in and steal it from us."

"You're never happy," Wes said dryly, doing his best to regain his equilibrium. "First our job is too boring, now it's too exciting."

"No, this is the perfect amount of exciting," Travis corrected. "I just don't want to feds to swoop in and take over, is all."

Wes rolled his eyes, nodding towards the captain's office, where Sutton and the lead agent were just stepping out. "We'd better get our notes. Looks like we're up."

**XXXX**

"Alright, gang, listen up," Sutton said once everyone was settled into the conference room. "This is Special Agent O'Donnell and his team. They will be heading this investigation now," (Travis groaned, and Sutton shot him a look) "but we will assist in the investigation. Agent O'Donnell, if you will?" The captain stepped away, allowing the agent to take the lead.

O'Donnell was young and bright-eyed, looking like he'd just stepped out of Quantico. He seemed the sort who would doggedly pursue every lead and run it to the ground.

"Thank you, Captain Sutton," O'Donnell said as he stepped forward. "And may I say now, I appreciate your cooperation with this investigation, and I'm sure we'll all work well together."

Travis snorted; Wes kicked him under the table.

"As said, I'm Special Agent O'Donnell, and this is my team." The agent pointed to each person in turn. "Agents Spitz, Nazareno, Webber, and Sanderson. They will accompany you during this."

"And then they'll steal all the credit for anything we find," Travis grumbled under his breath. Wes kicked him again.

O'Donnell turned to the board, and Wes's hand tightened on his pen. "My team is on a task force dedicated to finding and taking down the group known as Nevermore."

Wes's knuckles went white.

"What's that?" Travis chirped, not noticing Wes's distress. "Some sort of Poe appreciation club?"

O'Donnell sent him a very unamused glower. "I see. You must be the comic relief."

Snickers erupted around the room, and Travis sank into his seat.

"While heavily inspired by Poe, hence the name and the symbol," O'Donnell pointed to a picture of a raven, exactly like the one found at the crime scene. "Nevermore is a group of select, elite assassins, responsible for dozens of high-profile deaths per year. They have been operating for at least twenty-five years, with the largest branch in New York and the second-largest right here in LA."

Wes's pen made a jagged slash of ink across his paper. Travis gave him an odd look and a raised eyebrow; Wes shook it off.

"We've been searching for a lead on the LA side of things for years. Unfortunately, whenever we get close, people tend to end up dead, or they vanish."

He was not, Wes realized, actually taking notes here. He was just sitting there, pressing his pen to the paper and creating a huge inkblot.

"The only way we've found to identify members of Nevermore is by a tattoo, identical to this symbol." O'Donnell tapped the picture of the raven again. "Members who have been fully inducted into the group all have this raven tattooed on their left shoulder, with very few exceptions. Now, our victim was not a member of Nevermore, but the symbol left on the wall is a giveaway." The agent looked expectantly at Wes and Travis.

Wes didn't move, staring at his notepad, clutching his pen so hard his hand was trembling. He could feel Travis staring at the side of his head, silently asking _What the hell is going on, man?_ but he didn't bring it up, not in front of everyone.

After a moment, Travis stood. He gave a brief summation of what they'd found, which, as it turned out, was basically nothing. "We went to talk to the widow, ask her if she knew anything, but she's out of town," Travis said. "She's flying in tonight, so we're going to go in the morning."

O'Donnell nodded. "I'd like you to keep working this like any other murder investigation. I'm going to send Agent Nazareno with you. Agent Spitz will remain here, while I and the rest of my team coordinate with the LA field offices."

He started handing out business cards. "Here's my cell phone numbers. If you learn anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem, call." He took a breath. "And be careful. These people are violent, remorseless sociopaths, and they will—"

Wes's pen snapped in half, spilling black ink over his hand and across the table. Travis jumped up with a startled yelp, quickly grabbing his stuff out of the spray zone. Wes just stared dumbly at the mess, not even noticing when ink started dripping over the edge into his lap.

"Is everything alright, Mitchell?"

Sutton's voice cut through the haze. Wes's head snapped up, and he leapt to his feet, trying to contain the mess with his hands. "I—yes, yes, everything's fine. I just…sorry, don't know what came over me…" Trying to stop the flow was only smearing the ink around more. Wes looked up, mouth open to ask for paper towels, and stopped.

Every single police officer was staring at him in shock, and Travis's eyes were cartoonishly huge. He followed their gazes, looking down at himself. Both his hands were covered in black ink, both sleeves and one elbow were stained, and there was a dark splotch on his lap that was spreading.

"Oh, _oh_, I'm sorry, I—" He made a move to pull his jacket off, then stopped. At best he shuffled out of the dripping ink, looking helplessly down at himself.

Sutton sighed. "I think we're done here anyway?" he asked, looking to O'Donnell for confirmation. At the agent's nod, the captain ordered, "Mitchell, go get cleaned up. Marks, find your partner a change of clothes. When you're done, I want your reports of today's scene on my desk by five."

Obediently, Wes moved towards the door. Then he hesitated, looking at his hands.

"And will someone get the door for Mitchell?"

**XXXX**

Wes was standing at the sink in his pants and undershirt when Travis came in, washing his hands for the third time, which meant the skin on his palms was just sort of slightly purple now. His jacket and shirt, which also hadn't escaped unscathed, were in the next sink, soaking in cold water, and as soon as Travis handed over his clothes, his pants would join them.

Travis didn't hand over his clothes. He leaned against the wall, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. "So," he said conversationally, "What the hell?"

Wes rinsed grey suds down the drain and didn't look at his partner. "It's nothing. Give me my pants."

"It is _not_ nothing!" Travis retorted. "You snapped a pen in half. And then you tried to clean it up with your bare hands. You!" He crossed his eyes, frowning. "Something is going on with you, and I want to know what."

Wes dried his hands, scowled at the blotches on his palms, and plunged his hands in the water again. "Travis. It is _nothing_. I'm…stressed."

Travis didn't buy it. "I've seen you stressed, man. I saw you through your divorce and Paekman and everything. You've _never_ broken a pen in half and turned yourself into a Rorschach blot. So what's going on?"

Wes scrubbed his hands, nails scratching at his skin like that would get the ink off, would make Travis go away. "Travis, leave it alone."

"So there _is_ something!" Wes's lips thinned, and Travis scowled. "Come on, talk to me. I can help."

"You really can't," Wes said, cursing himself even as the words left his mouth. "Just give me my clothes and leave so I can change."

Travis made no move to do such a thing. "You know, Dr. Ryan would be _very _disappointed in you, Wes. Keeping secrets, bottling things up. We're working on _openness _and _honesty,_ remember?"

Wes's hands spasmed. He got more soap to cover up the motion. _You don't want me to be that open and honest,_ he thought, biting his lip to keep it in. Saying that would only make Travis more determined.

"Really? You're just gonna stand there? Wes, tell me what's going on?"

"Or what?" Wes snapped, sharper than he intended. "You'll hold my clothes hostage?"

"I'm thinking about it!"

For the first time, Wes looked up, meeting his partner's eyes in the mirror. "I have four spare suits. That's not much of a threat."

Travis stared at him, jaw jumping. "Fine. You want to do it that way, I don't care." He tossed Wes's clothes on the next sink. "But don't think this is over. I _will_ find out what's going on!"

Wes waited until the door closed behind Travis before he slumped, pressing a wet hand to his left shoulder. "Oh, Travis," he breathed, dropping his hand. There was just enough ink left to smear across his skin. He stared at the mark.

"I pray to god you won't."

**XXXX**

Travis gave him the silent treatment the rest of the afternoon, which was fine. Wes wasn't much in the mood for talking. It was almost a relief to clock out at the end of the day.

He drove to his hotel in a daze, hardly paying attention to his surroundings as he climbed out of his car. Which was why he didn't notice the figure sitting on the hood of a nearby car until she spoke.

"Nice evening, isn't it?"

Wes tensed, whirling, hand going to his hip. The figure hopped off the hood and strolled closer, and Wes tensed even more, gun coming out of the holster.

"Larabee," he said, voice flat and cold.

The woman paused mere feet away, rocking jauntily on her heels. "Mitchell. Nice place. Bit of a downgrade from your last one, I must say."

Wes's hand twitched. Larabee's dark eyes saw it and glittered.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know." Larabee shrugged, leaning back against the adjacent car. "I was in the area, thought I'd say hi."

Wes's face didn't change, not one whit. "What happened to your arm?"

Larabee glanced at her right arm, tucked against her chest in a sling. "This? Car accident." Wes raised one eyebrow, and Larabee laughed. "No, like an actual car accident. Dog came out of nowhere and I…" She twisted her hand like she was jerking a steering wheel.

"A dog." Disbelief. "You."

"What can I say, I like dogs." Larabee held up her good hand in an _Oh well_ type gesture.

Wes's jaw tightened, and he shifted on his feet. "The man in the auditorium. Was that you?"

"The professor, or whatever?" She waved a negligent hand. "Naw, not my style. You know I like to get up close and personal with people. It was a new recruit who did that."

His fingers tightened on his gun, and he barely resisted raising it and shooting Larabee right here. "Then why are you _here?_"

"I _told_ you. Just stopped by to see an old friend." Larabee grinned, a shark-toothed smile. "Maybe I'll come by tomorrow, at lunch. Say hi."

Wes was moving before he realized, slamming her against the side of the car with his forearm pressing down on the woman's throat. His other hand pushed the gun into her gut, hard enough to leave a bruise.

"No," he said softly, and his voice promised death. "You don't touch them, you don't go near them. They aren't yours."

"Mmm!" Larabee smirked, writhing against the car. "That's what I always liked about you, Mitchell. That ruthless edge of yours. You've got everyone fooled, haven't you?"

Wes pressed his arm down harder, dug his gun a little deeper.

"Okay, okay!" Larabee wheezed, tapping Wes's arm. Wes eased the pressure. Slightly. "I won't touch your little pets, Mitchell. Cross my heart and blah blah blah. I have no use for them."

The only reason Wes stepped back was because that was the best he was going to get. If Larabee had no use or interest, then they were as safe as could be until she left.

Larabee pushed up from the car, rubbing her neck, and her eyes were admiring when she looked at Wes. "They really have no idea. You have to tell me sometime how you managed that, how you fooled your precious little pets into thinking you're _normal_."

"No, I don't," Wes snapped. His finger twitched, but he didn't pull the trigger. It would only get messy, and he'd have to explain to O'Donnell why he shot an unarmed woman in a parking lot, which would lead to questions and stories he didn't want to tell. Much as he wanted to, there was nothing he could do here.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved his gun into his holster. He only felt the slightest apprehension turning his back; if Larabee wanted him dead, he'd already be dead.

Still, it didn't stop the tingle of fear that ran down his spine when Larabee called, "See you later, Mitchell."

**XXXX**

"Hi, Wes."

Something tight eased in Wes's chest at her voice. "Alex. You're okay."

A long, heavy pause ran down the line. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asked in the voice of a woman who'd been married to both a lawyer and a cop. A voice that asked, _Am I in trouble?_

Wes bent over, pressed his hand to his forehead. "Nothing, no reason. I can't… Be careful, okay? I need you to be careful for a few days."

"Okay." No hesitation, no questions, just instant acceptance, because she understood. And then, almost hesitant, she asked, "Are you okay, Wes?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and the only reason he answered honestly was because it was _Alex_. "I…don't know. I think so. It's just this case is… I'll know for sure in a few days."

"I see." He knew that tone of voice, the one that said _You're hiding something from me,_ but she didn't press.

He let out a slow, measured breath. "Just stay safe, alright? I need you to stay safe."

"Okay," Alex assured him. "I will."

"Good. Good." He would have dropped his head into his hands, but that would require setting his phone down, and he couldn't bear to break even that tenuous connection with her. Not yet.

"Wes," Alex said gently, "You know, if you need anything, you can call me."

_I need to keep you safe from my past,_ was on the tip of his tongue. He bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. "I know. I do, I know, I will," he told her, even though they both knew he wouldn't.

Wes would have been content to stay like that, bent over the phone with his ex-wife breathing in his ear (safe, secure, _alive_), but she finally sighed and said, "I'd better go, I have court in the morning…"

"Right, right, I'll, uh, I'll let you do that." He didn't want to let her go, but staying on the phone any longer would be crossing boundaries he wasn't allowed to step over anymore. "So, um…good night, Alex."

"Good night, Wes." She hung up, and Wes fought the reflex to immediately dial her back.

Instead, he put his head into his hands and took a few long breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

**XXXX**

"Wes, you asshole, I am this close to having a truly spectacular night with Belinda. I don't need you cockblocking me right now, man."

Wes blinked at his phone. "What—? No, I'm not…" He took a breath. "That's not why I called."

"Yeah?" He could hear the frown in Travis's voice. "Then why'd you call, Wes?"

"I…" What was he supposed to say to Travis? He wouldn't be okay with a vague warning like Alex—Travis would ask questions and probe until he got an answer he was satisfied with.

"Can you hurry this up, man? I have a girl. Waiting. In my bed. So…"

Wes swallowed. "Don't drive to work tomorrow."

"…okay…"

"I'll pick you up."

A baffled, "Okay?" told Wes he wasn't off the hook. Sure enough, a moment later, Travis asked, "You alright, Wes?"

Wes wanted to laugh. What were they hearing in his voice that made them both so worried?

"I'm fine, Trav, everything's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, eight o'clock sharp."

"Wes—"

"You'd better get going, Travis," Wes interrupted before the interrogation could start. "Belinda is waiting.

He hung up before Travis could ask anything else.

**XXXX**

Paranoia made him sleep with his gun under his pillow, but it didn't make his rest any easier.

**XXXX**

"So are you going to tell me what last night was about?" Travis asked for the twentieth time.

Wes clicked his turn signal on and said, for the twentieth time, "No I am not. Leave it alone."

Travis was not going to leave it alone, this time was no different than the last nineteen times. "You know, Dr. Ryan would be very disappointed in the way you're keeping everything to yourself. You're supposed to _share _these things with your partner, Wes."

Wes shot him a glare and turned into the driveway of the Montalbo home. "Shut up."

"I really won't."

"Shut up and do your job, Travis," Wes said as he climbed out of the car. He was afraid it came out a little harsher than he intended, but he didn't apologize. That would just mean Travis was right, and Travis _wasn't _right, not about this. Travis needed to _drop_ this.

Luckily, Agent Nazareno pulled into the drive as Travis climbed out of the car. She was all business, striding up and ordering, "Come on, let's do this," and Travis really couldn't keep pestering Wes about the call last night.

Wes was immeasurably grateful.

He followed her and didn't look at his partner.

**XXXX**

Carissa Montalbo was stereotypically Californian—long blonde hair, tanned skin, petite to the point of looking unhealthy.

And she was devastated by her husband's death.

"I don't understand," she sobbed on her couch. "I still don't believe he's dead. Why would anyone want to kill him? He was such a good man!"

Wes and Travis shared a look. Agent Nazareno stood behind them, silently judging the way all FBI agents did to their cop brethren.

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?" Wes asked gently. "Anyone who might be angry, or have a grudge?"

"No!" she wailed. Travis silently pushed the box of tissues towards her. "He was a good man! He volunteered at animal shelters and gave his change to homeless people! He never hurt anyone!"

They shared another look. It was a circular argument that was going to get them nowhere, and they both knew it. Wes made a note to check out their victim's workplace, then glanced at Agent Nazareno.

She stepped forward. "Mrs. Montalbo, have you ever heard of a group called Nevermore?"

She sniffled, peeking at the agent through a handful of tissues. "No. No, my husband didn't like poetry."

And that put an end to that line of questioning.

"Thank you, Mrs. Montalbo." Travis slid his card across the table. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call."

**XXXX**

Franco Montalbo's workplace was just as unilluminating as his widow. From what they could tell, Montalbo _was _a genuinely good guy. No one had a single bad thing to say about him. Not a one.

Basically, no one could think of any reason why _anyone _in the _world_ could want him dead. But someone obviously had. They just…had no leads at all.

Agent Nazareno departed as they left. "This was a waste of time," she said, pulling out her phone. "I'm going back to the offices to see what my team has found. I'll see you later." She strode off as she was saying the last sentence.

Travis sucked on his teeth. "I don't think she really meant that sincerely."

"Probably not." Wes pulled out his keys, leading the way to the car. "Come on, we're going to be late for therapy."

"Right." Travis scrambled into the passenger seat, propping a foot on the dash. Wes glared, but Travis wasn't deterred.

Halfway there, Travis said, "So, you ready to talk about last night, then?"

"Not happening, Travis."

"You don't talk now, I'll bring it up in therapy."

Wes glanced at his partner. "You wouldn't dare."

Travis just grinned. "Try me."

**XXXX**

Travis dared.

He barely had his butt in the seat before his hand was up in the air like an elementary school student. "Wes is being weird," he announced, and god, he even said it like he was tattling.

Wes dropped his face in his hand. "I hate you so much," he groaned.

Travis ignored him. "He's being really weird and he's not telling me _why_ and I don't appreciate it."

Dr. Ryan sat back in her seat. "How is Wes being 'weird'?"she asked.

Wes looked up. "Really? We're really doing this?"

She turned a bland stare his way. "Your partner has concerns about you, it is only fair we hear him out about them."

Travis shot him a smug look; Wes rolled his eyes and sat back, arms crossed.

Dr. Ryan turned back to Travis. "Continue."

Travis leaned forward, ever-eager now that he got to dish about Wes. "Okay, so, it's this case, right. Ever since this case started—"

"What are you working on?" Dakota asked.

"Nationwide hitmen," Travis said. There were murmurs and oohs of interest around the circle, and sometimes Wes really hated his life. "So we've got this hitman case," Travis continued, "and ever since it started, Wes has been acting weird. He's, like, jumpy and kind of paranoid, and last night he calls me up out of nowhere and says he's picking me up. Which, you know, is cool and all, he just usually tells me _before_ midnight."

"It couldn't have been later than ten thirty," Wes corrected feebly. He was, yet again, ignored.

"But every time I try to get him to talk about it," Travis said, leading up to the big finale, "he deflects or says there's nothing wrong."

"So Travis decided to ambush me in the middle of therapy," Wes added, voice dry as the Sahara desert.

Dr. Ryan's gaze shifted to him. "And how does that make you feel?" she asked.

Resisting the urge to fidget, Wes glared at his partner. "I really don't appreciate it, Travis."

And Travis, the bastard, didn't even look apologetic in the slightest. "Man, bottling things up isn't healthy, this is for your own good."

The doctor cut in before Wes could reply with anything more heated. "Wes, is Travis right? Is something bothering you about this case?"

Wes opened his mouth. Then he shut it, rethinking his reply. If he automatically got snippy and defensive, it would just make Travis pry more, and then the therapy group would be on Travis's side trying to get him to open up. Wes wouldn't, and then his position as the asshole of the group would be solidified.

On the _other _hand…

He shifted, slumping minutely in his seat. Just a few inches, but enough to be noticeable. He looked down at his hands, took a moment, and inhaled.

"Yeah, I…this case is a little…" He made a vague motion in the air with one hand. "There's some associations and…bad memories that I really don't want to get into right now. So yes, I guess I _may_ be a little upset."

He took a deep breath, knowing everyone was watching, and added the icing to the cake. "It, uh, it also doesn't help that…that my anniversary is next week."

Travis shot him a sharp look. Everyone else made sympathetic noises.

"Anniversaries are always hard," Mr. Dumont nodded sagely. "I still get teary at the anniversary of my mom's death, and that was forty years ago."

"Exactly." Wes nodded, looking up with his most troubled expression on. "It _is_ hard, and I…I guess I've been taking it out on Travis."

He turned to face Travis, hands planted on his knees, back ramrod straight. He was putting on the performance of a lifetime here, he was damn well going to make it look realistic, and even when he was admitting he was wrong, Wes would apologize like it was being torn out of him.

"Travis," he said, taking another deep breath. "I…I'm sorry."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and Travis just gaped at him, wide-eyed.

Then Clyde looked around the circle, pointing towards Wes. "Was that progress? Did he just make progress?"

"It _felt_ like progress," Dakota said dreamily, resting her hand on her husband's arm with a small smile.

Wes sat back as the conversation moved from his apparent progress to ways of dealing and coping with tough events, and he had to force himself not to grin in triumph.

They bought it, hook, line, and sinker. He still had it.

Well. Everyone but Travis.

His partner kept staring at him, suspicion in his gaze, but he didn't say a word about it during the session.

**XXXX**

"What the hell was that in there?" Travis demanded as soon as the car doors were closed.

Wes buckled his seatbelt like nothing in the world was wrong. "What was what?"

Ignoring his own seatbelt and a dozen safety laws, Travis turned to face him, arching like an angry cat. "Why'd you lie to Dr. Ryan, huh? Why are you lying to me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wes said smoothly. "Put your seatbelt on."

"Bullshit." Travis did not put his seatbelt on. "I know for a fact your anniversary is next _month_, not next week, and you wouldn't be acting like this even if it was tomorrow. So what's really going on?"

Wes shot him a look. "Seatbelt. On. Now. Why would you possibly know when my anniversary is?"

"It's two days after one of my foster mom's birthdays," Travis said. He settled into his seat, still tense and angry, but he put the damn seatbelt on. Wes waited for the 'click' and pulled out of the parking space.

"Seriously, man, what's going on?" Travis asked a few blocks down the road. "Why are you acting so weird?"

"I told you, Travis," Wes said calmly, "I'm just stressed. Maybe not _exactly_ because of my impending anniversary, but my reasons are my own."

"You don't get overprotective and distracted when you're stressed, you get even more OCD and pissy and you clean things. This isn't stress. This is…what? Worry? Fear? Constipation? I'm shooting blind here."

"It's nothing, Travis."

"And now we get an appearance by the King of Denial." Travis shifted, scowling at him. "I will find out, one way or another, you know that, right? So you might as well tell me."

"Travis. It. Is. _Nothing."_

His partner sighed. "The more you say that, the less I believe it." He leaned back. "I mean, there's _obviously_ something going on. You're being weird. Er. Than usual. Ever since we found out this guy was whacked by a bunch of Poe cultists."

Wes flinched, jerking the wheel. Travis grunted, bracing himself on the dash and glaring. "Jesus, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing," Wes denied through gritted teeth. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

"You obviously are _not_. You've been strange this whole case. What is it? You know the vic?"

"…no. No, I didn't know him."

"Then what?" Travis studied him, a frown tugging at his lips. "Is it this group? Nevermore?"

Wes flinched again, minutely, and Travis saw. His eyes widened. "Seriously? What, you had a case against them in the past or something?"

"Or something," Wes muttered grimly, clutching the steering wheel and silently urging Travis to shut up.

His partner perked up. "Dude, you need to tell O'Donnell, maybe you know something—"

"No!" Wes snapped, too quickly, too vehemently. He swallowed hard, modulating his tone. "No, I…it wouldn't help, not like that, and it was a long time ago. It doesn't affect me anymore."

"Bullshit." Travis scowled, a light going off behind his eyes. "You're still worried. That's why you picked me up today, isn't it? And why you're so jumpy?" He leaned forward, face shifting to eagerness and earnestness. "Wes, let's talk to O'Donnell. I'll go with you if you want."

Wes forced his hands to relax their death grip on the wheel. "It's fine, Travis. I told you. It doesn't affect me anymore."

Travis gave him a look. "Yes it does. Why won't you just tell me, man?"

He wanted to unburden himself, confess everything, and be forgiven for the things he'd done. Oh, how he wanted to.

But he couldn't. His sins were too great for forgiveness, and he knew Travis wouldn't understand. All that would happen was he ended up in jail, and then where would he be?

No. Much as he wanted to, he had to stay quiet. It was better that way. For everyone.

"Wes," Travis still pleaded. "Just _talk_ to me."

_Inhale. Exhale._

Wes relaxed his hands, looked over and gave Travis a vague, small smile. "After, Travis, okay? I'll tell you as much as I can, as soon as this case is over."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Travis's eyes turned a stormy blue, a challenge rising up. "I'll find out one way or another, you know. I can be very motivated if I try."

Wes stared straight out the windshield and didn't let his smile drop. "You do that, I guarantee you won't like what you find."

His partner gave him a sharp look, opened his mouth. Then he closed it, staring broodingly out the window, like he was trying to find the answer in the street signs as they passed.

He didn't say another word. Wes filled the silence with the radio and ignored the quiver of unease in his gut.

**XXXX**

Somehow, Wes wasn't all that surprised to see Larabee waiting in the parking lot when he pulled in. Wes paused before getting out, debating just shooting her and getting it over with. But that would just raise more questions he couldn't answer, and he'd had enough of those today. With a sigh, he let his hand fall from his hip and climbed out of the car.

"What do you want, Larabee?" he said coldly, crossing his arms imperiously.

Larabee shrugged, stalking slowly around the hood of the car. "Oh, just want to say hi."

"Hi," Wes snapped. "Now leave."

"That's not very nice."

"I didn't want to see you yesterday," Wes retorted. "What makes you think I want to see you today too?"

The woman ran her fingers over the hood, the right half of her mouth twisted up. "I've come to offer you a job opportunity."

Wes's heart skipped a beat; he stumbled back a step, as though distance could make the words disappear. "No," he shook his head. "No, I got out. I'm _done._"

"Wes, Wes, Wes." Larabee shook her head, walking her fingers along the car. "You were never _out_. People who get out end up in a hole in the ground. You were simply given an _extremely _long leash. You were one of the best, but your heart wasn't in it anymore." She paused, cocked her head to the side. "Or rather, your heart _was _in it, and that was the problem, wasn't it?"

Wes shook his head again, denial and disbelief warring. "No. You don't need me. What about the person who shot Montalbo?"

"Yeah, about that." She clicked her tongue. "I lied. It was me." She wiggled her arm, still tucked neatly in its sling. "I did the job. Then I had a little accident afterwards. I was lucky I'd already stowed my stuff away, or that would have been an awkward ambulance ride. In cuffs."

"You have other snipers," Wes protested. "You don't need _me_."

"I do for this one. Everyone else is either on a job or out of range."

"I won't." Wes shook his head one last time, and said, more adamantly. "I _can't_. You said it yourself, I'm worthless to you."

"You're also the only option we've got." Larabee inched closer, eyes glittering like a snake. "You'll do it because you have to. And if you don't…we have ways to persuade you." She stepped right into Wes's personal space, licked her lips. "What'll it be, Mitchell? Your ex…or your partner?"

Larabee's head made a sharp _crack_ when it impacted the asphalt, but she didn't seem to notice, grinning up at the snarl on Wes's face. Despite the arm on her throat and the gun in her gut—just like last night except horizontal this time—the woman just kept grinning. "The partner, huh? I must say." Her eyes flicked up and down over Wes's form. "You don't seem the type. But hey, each to his own, I'm not judging."

"You touch him," Wes growled, "You touch _either_ of them, and I swear to god I will end you."

Larabee wriggled beneath him, smiling provocatively. "I swear, I see this and I have no _clue_ how you kept it hidden. They have no idea, your little pets, no idea the sort of monster inside you."

It was like a bucket of cold water. It didn't wash the fires away, but it banked them, made them a little less all-consuming. Clarity returned, and he pulled away.

"I won't do it," he spat, climbing to his feet. "Don't you _dare_ touch them."

"Do it, and I won't have to," Larabee said smoothly, sitting up. She smiled, devil-may-care like nothing happened. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mitchell."

Wes turned his back and walked away.

He ignored Larabee's voice, calling after him, "You'll say yes! I know you will!"

**XXXX**

"Do you still have that friend who works security? The one from your book club?"

"…hello to you too, Wes."

Wes paced his hotel room, wanting nothing more than to go over there, collect Alex, then go get Travis. And then just lock them away until this whole mess was cleared up. But since that wasn't really an option… "Hi, Alex," he amended, running his hand through his hair. "Your friend…"

"Amy."

"Amy. Can you stay with her tonight?"

The silence on the other end of the line was pregnant with questions, but all she said was, "Am I in trouble, Wes?"

He let out a breath, fingertips running over his hip. "Honestly, I don't think so." Larabee had focused on Travis, not Alex. "But I'd rather be safe than sorry."

She sighed, sounding tired. "I understand you can't talk about an ongoing case. But you will tell me what's going on, right? After it's all done?"

It sounded too much like what he'd told Travis earlier, and he sort of laughed helplessly. "Yeah. I'll try."

"Okay." Another sigh, and Wes felt bad for doing this to her, he really did. She was supposed to be done with this once they divorced. But he had to be sure. As long as she was safe, he could deal with the rest. "Okay, I'll see if I can spend the night at Amy's. If not, I'll make other arrangements."

Wes's shoulders slumped, and he sank onto the edge of the bed. "Thank you, Alex."

"But you owe me an explanation for this."

"I know." _I owe you an explanation for a lot more than this, _he thought, and sighed. "Thank you. Call me when you get there?"

"I will."

It wasn't easy letting her hang up. He had to take a moment, press his phone to his forehead and just breathe.

Two days. He'd only had this case two days, but it felt like everything he'd built around him was crumbling. Amazing how one stupid period from his past could ruin not only himself but everyone around him.

_I'm sorry_, he silently sent to Travis, and Alex, and anyone else who might be affected by this. _I'm so sorry. If I'd known…_

They'd told him he was out. How could he have known they'd lie? _You were never out._

But really, what did he expect, dealing with the criminal element?

Wes exhaled, scrubbed his hands over his face, and stood. No time for regrets. His past was biting him in the ass and he had to make sure no one got hurt because of it.

**XXXX**

Dealing with Travis was infinitely easier than dealing with Alex. Mostly because Wes didn't even tell Travis what was going on. That would just make Travis's guard go up, and Wes would get hit with another barrage of questions.

Instead, Wes drove across town, parked his car down the block from Travis's apartment building, and watched.

It was a long night.

**XXXX**

"I'm driving to work."

Wes blinked, frowned, and crossed his arms, in that order. "No you're not."

Travis propped his helmet on his hip, scowling defiantly. "Yes, I am. I have errands to run after work."

"I'll go with you."

"You—" Travis gaped at him. "Okay, this is starting to get creepy. Are you going to tell me what's going on yet?"

Wes's jaw clenched. "No."

"Then I'm driving to work."

Travis was in full stubborn-mode, which meant he wasn't going to budge. Wes had some experience dealing with Travis's stubborn moods—unfortunately, he tended to lose. Not because he wasn't equally stubborn, because he was. It was simply that Wes saw the benefits of giving in and ending the war early.

"I'm not going to wait until after the case," Travis informed him, planting his feet. "So tell me what's going on and I'll get in the car. Otherwise, get out of my way because I'm driving to work."

Wes could feel a vein in his jaw jumping. "I could drag you to the car."

"And I could punch you in the throat. _Or _you could tell me what's wrong with you. There's a lot of 'could's in this scenario, Wes." Travis cocked a hip, staring at him challengingly. "So what'll it be?"

And Wes knew that if he said no, Travis would climb into his bike and drive off before Wes could stop him. It was only a twenty-minute drive to work, but twenty minutes was a lot of time, and Larabee was extremely resourceful. If Wes let Travis go, even for a moment…

No. It wasn't worth it.

He clenched his jaw, clutching his keys so tight they were leaving imprints in his palm. "Fine."

One of Travis's eyebrows went up. "_Fine?_" he repeated in a tone that said he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Wes's jaw hurt, he was clenching his teeth so hard. "_Fine._ I'll tell you. So get in the damn car."

**XXXX**

"I can't tell you everything," Wes disclaimed right away.

Since they were already driving, all Travis could really do was glare at him. "You said you'd tell me what's going on."

"And I will. I just…can't tell you everything."

The glare on the side of his head got sharper. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I _can't! _I—" _I don't want you to hate me, Travis. Not you._ Wes clutched the steering wheel. "You wouldn't understand."

"I'm a pretty understanding guy. Try me."

"Travis, I _can't_."

He saw Travis watching him, a long, contemplative stare. "Okay," he said gently, stepping back like he could see how close to the edge Wes was. "Okay. What _can_ you tell me?"

Wes took a breath, forced his fingers to unclench. "You were right. Yesterday. I've had some dealings with Nevermore in the past."

"Right." Travis nodded. "On a case."

"Not exactly."

Travis chuckled uncertainly. "Then what, you hired a hitman?"

"…not…exactly."

"Then how—"

"It's not important," Wes cut in before Travis could ask. If Travis finished his question, Wes would have to lie, and he didn't want to lie. He did enough of that on a daily basis. He just wanted to…not tell the whole truth, was all.

"The _how_ isn't important. I have a history with them, let's leave it at that. And I thought it was all in the past, but with this case I'm learning it's…not so much."

"You think I'm in danger," Travis concluded. He waved a hand around the car. "That's why you're doing all this. You think I'm in danger because of mysterious dealings that happened before we even met?"

Wes didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Travis shook his head. "Man, you have no faith at all, do you? I can take care of myself, Wes. Just give me some warning, is all."

"They're a group of elite assassins, Travis," Wes snapped, glaring at him. "You really think you can protect yourself from a sniper, like the one that killed our victim?"

"Oh, and you watching me like a hawk is gonna save me from a sniper's bullet?" Travis snapped right back.

"I have a better chance of protecting you if you're at my side!" Wes near shouted.

"You're not even telling me what you're protecting me from!"

Wes slammed his palm against the wheel. "Dammit, Travis, can't you just do what I say, for _once_ in your life?!"

"Can't you ever give me a plain reason for something? For once in _your_ life!"

They glared at each other, until finally Wes threw up his hands. "I've given you all you're going to get. You want to ignore me and get yourself _shot_, I don't care anymore." He climbed out of the car, and he didn't slam the door, that wasn't his way, but he wanted to. He stomped to the elevator instead.

Travis _did_ slam the door, which earned him a sharp glare that he ignored. But whatever. Wes didn't care anymore. Let them shoot the stubborn bastard, Wes would probably be better off without him.

But he kept scanning his surroundings, and when Travis got on the elevator, Wes stood between him and the door.

**XXXX**

With the agents investigating whatever Nevermore leads they'd scrounged up, and since the two of them hadn't found any new leads yesterday, there wasn't much else to do except retrace their steps.

"I mean, I don't get it," Travis said as they exited the office after another round of fruitless questioning. His sour mood had only worsened with each boring, useless interview. "How can one person be so well-liked? _No one _has had anything bad to say about this guy. _No one._ And I'm sorry, but if you haven't pissed off at least one person in your life, you're lying, or you're hiding something."

"Maybe he's just a genuinely nice person," Wes remarked, pulling out his keys.

"That's the thing!" Travis threw his hands in the air as he climbed into the car. "Montalbo _was _a genuinely nice guy, from all accounts. A motivational speaker who gave free speeches to high school students. No one had a reason to be mad at him, why would _anyone _hirea hitman to kill him?"

"I don't know," Wes grumbled, frowning absently. "Why would someone hire a hitman to kill him?"

Unbidden, Larabee's words sprang to mind. _I have a job opportunity for you._

Something sparked, a thought he almost had a grasp of, just a glimmer of an idea.

"—just said that."

"What?" Wes blinked out of his thoughts.

Travis frowned at him. " 'Why would someone hire a hitman to kill him.' I just said that."

"Right." Wes chewed on his lower lip, watching the light and forming the words in his head. "What if," he said slowly, forming the idea in his head as he spoke, "what if Montalbo wasn't the target."

"No way," Travis dismissed instantly. "That bullet went right through his forehead, and O'Donnell said these guys are some of the best. They wouldn't have made a mistake like that. Montalbo was definitely the target."

"No, he was the target," Wes agreed. "But what if no one hired the sniper?"

A quizzical pause. "I'm not following."

"What if Montalbo was practice?" Larabee had always been better up close and personal. If they were bringing her out to snipe people, Nevermore must be clutching at straws. So of course she would need to practice, get in the element so she wouldn't miss her real target.

"Practice," Travis repeated doubtfully, his tone just enough to make Wes feel stupid. He'd been off this whole case, this was probably just more of the same. Larabee was just in his head trying to draw him back in.

But then Travis said, slowly, working through the problem aloud, "Practice. Shooting a man, through a window…in front of a hundred people." He looked at Wes. "It would explain why there's no motive for the hit."

Wes relaxed a little, feeling validated. Maybe he wasn't as off as he thought. And maybe things hadn't changed as much as he'd feared. "It didn't have to be Montalbo. Anyone speaking in front of a crowd would do."

"Makes sense." Travis frowned, tapping the dash. "Wes, if this was just practice, someone else is going to die."

_I have a job opportunity for you._

Wes dug the business card out of his pocket. "Call O'Donnell."

Travis took the card, punched in the number. After a minute he scowled, ending the call. "Busy."

Wes pursed his lips, thumbs tapping the wheel. "If we're right, we can't wait." If someone else was going to die—and Wes was certain there was, now, it was all sliding together—then every second counted. They needed to figure out who it would be _before_ someone else died. "The FBI field offices are just a few blocks away."

Travis leaned back, looking grim, all his earlier ire swept away in light of this new theory. "Go."

**XXXX**

The field offices loomed, a towering fortress of glass and concrete. Travis refused to get out.

Wes ground his teeth together. "Travis. Get out of the car."

His partner pulled a face. "Man, you know I hate the FBI."

"I'm not leaving you alone in the car." Would Nevermore do something to Travis outside the FBI offices? Unlikely, but Wes wasn't going to take that chance.

Travis sighed, a long-suffering sound. "I won't do anything to your car, Wes. Promise."

"It's not about the _car_, Travis. Remember that whole conversation we had this morning, about the group that I thought might come back and _hurt you?_" Seriously, how could Travis not get this? Wes was _afraid for his life_ and Travis still seemed to think this was some kind of game.

His partner stared at him, and Wes could only hope his face didn't show too much.

Whatever he saw must have convinced him, because Travis finally grumbled, "_Alright_, when you put it like _that_, geez," climbing out of the car. Wes quickly followed.

Travis hung back inside, looking around the lobby while Wes went to the front desk. When he came back, Travis was sprawled haphazardly in a chair, playing on his phone.

"Here." Wes held out a visitor's badge. "O'Donnell is waiting upstairs."

"Nope."

That made Wes pause. "No?"

"Nope." Travis looked up, smiling cheekily. "I told you, man, I hate the FBI. I'll just wait here."

"Here," Wes repeated flatly.

"Right here," Travis chirruped, patting the arm of the chair.

"You won't move?"

"Absolutely not." Travis turned the phone so Wes could see the game on his screen. "Look, I downloaded Pipes last night, and you know how much of an achievement whore I am. I won't go anywhere."

Wes still hesitated. Travis's eyes went wide-eyed, pleading, like a big, sad puppy; sadly, it was always painfully effectively. "Come on, man, I'm surrounded by FBI agents _in _the FBI field offices. How much danger can I really be in?"

"Well…" Wes shifted, torn between dragging Travis with him and getting their theory to O'Donnell. At this point every second could make a difference; he never knew when Larabee would find another person to do the job. "You make a good point," he conceded, which was a big neon 'Yes!' and they both knew it.

Wes took a step towards the elevators, stopped, and gave Travis a sharp glare. "You really won't move?"

"Scout's honor." Travis made a Scout salute, wiggling his phone in his other hand. "_Pipes_, Wes. Why would I want to move?"

Wes narrowed his eyes. "I'll be back in a minute."

"I'll see you then."

Travis _sounded_ sincere enough, and Wes didn't want to waste any more time, so he slowly walked away. Travis waved every time he looked back, and the last thing he saw as the doors closed was Travis looking down at his phone, thumbs moving over the screen.

**XXXX**

Travis waited a full 60-count after the elevator doors shut to hop to his feet. _I'll be right there_ he texted, exiting the building.

He wasn't stupid. Wes thought there was danger, so Travis stayed on alert. But he wasn't going to be cooped up and watched for a danger that possibly only existed in Wes's mind. His partner couldn't even specify what danger Travis may or may not be in. Travis would take precautions, but he wasn't going to just stop everything.

The FBI offices were two blocks away from Wes's old firm—and Alex's current firm. She met him out front with a warm, "It's good to see you, Travis," and a hug he happily returned.

Keeping in mind Wes's warning—he was being _cautious_, was all—he led them to a nearby café, grabbing a table. Alex ordered tea, but Travis didn't want anything.

"So," Alex said, wrapping her hands around her cup. "As lovely as this is, why did you want to meet?"

Travis considered and rejected a dozen responses before settling on the truth. "Wes is acting weird. I mean, he's always a little weird, but this is weird even for him."

She took a sip of her tea. "You noticed too, huh?"

"He's been completely paranoid and jumpy, he's avoiding my questions…" His brain caught up with his ears. "Wait, you?"

"Mm-hm." Alex set her cup down, somehow managing to look bemused and concerned simultaneously. "He called me up last night and told me to stay at a friend's house. She works security," she explained.

"He's barely let me out of his sight," Travis grumbles. He ran a hand through his hair. "It's this whole case, he's been spooked ever since it started." And now he got to the reason he wanted to meet. "Have you ever heard of a group called Nevermore?"

"Like the poem?"

"Yeah. It's a group of hitmen and assassins."

Her eyes widened. "No, I don't think so."

"What about when he was a lawyer? There wasn't a case or anything?"

Alex took a breath, frowning thoughtfully. "I really don't think so. I mean, he never really talked about his cases, but I'm sure he would have mentioned a group of assassins."

Travis groaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "There's got to be _some_ connection. You're _sure_ you've never heard of Nevermore or seen this symbol?" He pushed his phone her way, the raven symbol pulled up on the screen.

"The name? No. But…" She nodded with her chin at Travis's phone. "That looks like Wes's tattoo."

Travis's gut clenched. "Wes doesn't have a tattoo."

"Oh, no, he doesn't. Not anymore. But he did." She sipped her tea. "He had it removed right after he left the firm."

"And it looked like _this?_" Travis demanded, tapping the phone.

She picked it up, scrutinizing the image. "It's been a while, but yeah, I'm pretty sure this was it." She handed the phone back, a frown tugging at her lips. "What does it mean? What's the connection to this group?"

"I don't know, but when I find out, I'll be sure to let you know." He tucked his phone in his pocket and stood. "One last question. Where was it?"

"The tattoo?" He nodded. "It was on his shoulder. The left one."

Travis's stomach dropped right through the pavement.

"_Members who have been fully inducted into the group all have this raven tattooed on their left shoulder, with very few exceptions."_

"Travis?" The look on his face had Alex rising to her feet. "What is it? What's wrong?"

_That son of a bitch._ He stepped away from the table. "Excuse me, I need to go have a long angry conversation with your ex."

"Travis!" Alex followed him onto the sidewalk. "Will you please tell me what's going on?"

"As soon as I figure it out, I'll call."

"Travis!"

He stopped, turned to her. "Alex, I'm sure it's fine." A lie. If what he suspected was true, nothing was fine. "I just have some questions I won't let Wes avoid anymore." He hesitated. "But you should probably spend another night with your security friend."

For a second, Alex just stared at him. Then she made an exasperated sound, shaking her head. "You two are _so_ alike." Before he could protest, she turned, walking back towards the firm. "I'm going back to work. Call me when you get your answers."

Travis watched her until she was inside the building, punching at his phone. "Oh, you and me, buddy, we're gonna have _such_ a long talk, you damn bastard…"

"Excuse me?"

He turned to find himself facing a bright, hopeful smile. A woman stood there, one arm in a sling, and Travis immediately relaxed a little. Whatever threat Wes thought was coming (which was probably nothing since he was a fucking _liar, _the lying fuck) couldn't be her. Obviously not. She was injured.

She rubbed the back of her neck, laughing sheepishly. "Sorry, you're probably busy, but, uh, I'm a little turned around. Can you direct me to Point Lake Boulevard?"

"Uh, yeah." Travis scowled at his phone. Wes wasn't answering his texts, the fucker, who cared if he only sent it a second ago. Oh, Wes was in _so_ much trouble. "You go down two blocks, take a left, and go for like half a mile."

"Thank you, Detective Marks."

Travis's head snapped up. "How did you—?"

That's the last thing he remembered for a while.

**XXXX**

Wes's phone exploded with texts as the elevator reached the ground floor. He glanced at the screen, which was a lot of _We need to talk!_s and angry expletives and name-calling. It made him frown, and he looked to Travis for an explanation.

Travis was gone.

Wes wasn't _completely _surprised. This was _Travis_, who got restless even when he was sitting doing what he wanted. Travis probably got up to flirt with a pretty agent or went to find a cup of coffee.

He didn't start to panic until the woman at the front desk informed him that Travis left about ten minutes ago—pretty much as soon as Wes went upstairs. It crept up his skin, little prickles of anxiety, and there was probably nothing to worry about but until he saw Travis safe and sound with his own eyes he couldn't relax.

Okay. Think it through, Mitchell. Where would Travis go? What was around here?

Alex. Alex worked just down the street. Travis was so intent on getting answers he may have gone to talk to her. Wes couldn't imagine what she'd tell him, but if he was still there… Wes called Travis, trying to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach as he exited the FBI offices. It was fine, he'd just pop over to the firm, see if Travis was still there, it was all fi—

He froze, staring at his car, and all the panic flowed away in an instant.

Sitting on the windshield was Travis's badge, and underneath it sat a thin black feather.

"This is Travis's phone, I'm not here right now—"

Wes hung up. He felt shaky, but his hand was rock-steady as he reach out, cradling Travis's badge. The feather he crushed in his fist, a hot, angry fire flickering in his chest. He remembered this, the heat in his ribs while the rest of him went cold.

This was good. He could use this, and he'd get Travis back.

_You wanted to see the monster, Larabee. You're going to get your wish._

He climbed into the car, and the feather fell to the ground, crumpled and broken.

**XXXX**

"Alex, I need you to stay with Amy again tonight."

"I was already planning on it. Wes, what's going on? Travis came by—"

Wes turned onto his old street. Somehow it didn't bring peace of mind to know he'd been correct. Knowing where Travis _had _been didn't tell him where he was _now_.

"Everything's fine, Alex. This should all be cleared up soon."

"Are you okay? Is Travis okay? He asked about some group I'd never heard of, and about your tattoo."

Wes's fingers spasmed, almost sending him into the trashcans as he pulled into the driveway. "And you told him?" It would explain the angry texts. Travis would have easily made the connection.

It didn't matter now, he supposed. Not anymore. The priority now was to just get Travis back.

"Should I not have?" Wes didn't answer, and she let out an annoyed huff. "You never… Wes, is this group after you? This Nevermore?"

He gripped the steering wheel, forced himself to relax.

_Inhale. Exhale._

"It'll be alright," he promised. "Everything will be alright." He climbed out of the car, smiling politely to Mrs. Moreno next door. "And I want you to know, no matter what happens next, I always loved you."

"Wes, you're starting to scare me."

The garage door creaked open. Wes absently noted that he'd have to come by and oil the hinges sometime soon.

Then he reminded himself that if things went the way he expected them, he'd never be able to come back here again.

"I'm fine," he reassured her, closing the garage door behind him. "Everything's fine."

"Maybe you should call Dr. Ryan…"

"It's all _fine_, Alex. I don't need to talk to Dr. Ryan." He stopped in front of the tool wall. "I need to go now. I'll talk to you later." He hung up before she could say anything else.

Time to go to work.

**XXXX**

It had been almost ten years since he'd left Nevermore, but he'd kept everything.

He reached out, grabbed the peg the screwdriver hung on, and twisted. The whole tool wall swung silently outward.

Behind the wall was a shallow cubby. Inside sat all the tools of his former trade, including a change of clothes. Grim-faced, Wes started stripping down.

He didn't keep them as a contingency. The day he'd left, he'd sworn he'd never go down that road again. No, he kept them as a reminder. Every few months—less frequently once he'd moved out—he'd take the rifle out, clean it and assemble it and take it apart again. He'd done terrible things, and the routine reminded him of why he'd left in the first place.

He never though he'd ever had cause to use it again. But Larabee told him _You'll say yes_, and it looked like she'd found the one thing that could make it happen.

Black cargo pants, a dark grey shirt, a black jacket buttoned up to his chin. Heavy black boots with a generic tread sold in a thousand stores. Black leather gloves, thin enough to give him the dexterity he needed but they wouldn't leave prints. And a dark blue baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes.

His own clothes, he folded neatly, left them in the cubby behind the wall. He hesitated, though, when it came time to set his badge down.

_You don't have to do this,_ a little voice murmured. _You're going to walk away from everything you've worked to build? There's still time, you can find another option._

"There is no time," he murmured, reverently placing his badge on top of his folded suit. His gun went next to it. He wouldn't sully his service weapon with _this_. "They have Travis."

_Inhale. Exhale._

He reached in, pulled out a hard-shelled black case. A quick check to make sure everything was still there and in working order, and then he snapped the case closed and stepped back, giving the secret compartment one last look. Alex would find it when she came home—if it wasn't found by the FBI first. If this all went according to plan, the latter was much more likely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty house, to his ex-wife. He wished he could leave a note, wished he could explain everything.

But there was no time.

_Inhale. Exhale._

He shoved everything away, everything except the cold dead apathy in his bones and the crackling fire in his chest. He'd need those.

Then, for the last time, Wesley Mitchell walked away from his home.

**XXXX**

Mr. Phillip Darvish, of Darvish, Bowden & Kapur, lived on the eighteenth floor of a twenty-story building. Wes knelt on the roof across the street, peering through the rifle's scope. The living room/dining room/kitchen was all a huge open space with a wall of windows, all brightly-lit; Wes could see everything perfectly.

Darvish hadn't changed much over the years. A pudgy man with a mustache that was a little more grey than black and a face blotchy and red from too much wine. Seated across from his wife, he looked like any old family man enjoying an evening home.

Once upon a time, Mr. Phillip Darvish invited a young intern shooting, and then he offered him a job, and nothing was the same again.

Three months later, he'd introduced Wes to Christina Larabee and told them to kill a man.

Larabee hadn't left Wes any contact information. But if anyone could get in touch with her, it would be Darvish. Darvish was recruiter and fixer and handler all in one, and he kept track of all his recruits. Darvish would be able to reach Larabee.

Wes slowly lowered the scope, staring at the case at his side. _It's not too late,_ said that little voice that had grown after Anthony Padua died. _You can still come back from this._ He hadn't _technically_ done anything illegal yet. He could still turn around, find O'Donnell, and mount a rescue. As long as he didn't pull that trigger, he could still walk away with no repercussions.

But they had Travis, and Wes knew better than most just what Larabee was capable of. And Wes just couldn't take that chance. Not with Travis.

He reached for the case.

**XXXX**

_Inhale._

A Remington 700 nestled in foam. Forty-one and a half inches of sleek killing power. He lifts the pieces out, one at a time.

_Exhale._

He assembles the pieces, moving with the surety of practice and muscle memory. He goes quickly, but he takes his time to make sure everything is in place. Messing up now could end in a misfire, and missing isn't an option.

_Inhale._

Everything gets pushed away, all the useless feelings that won't help him. He keeps the cold apathy of death in his bones and a flicker of fire in his chest. Rage can overwhelm and make him lose control, but just a sliver of anger focuses him, sharp as a scalpel's edge.

_Exhale._

He places the rifle on the edge of the roof and peers through the scope.

_Inhale._

Now it's all math. Taking into account wind velocity, angle of the shot, the thickness of the glass. He's out of practice but it's not hard, the numbers running through his mind with ease. He's always been good at this part of it.

_Exhale._

It's just a word problem. If bullet X travels through a window at velocity Y, at what angle must the rifle be held to intersect with target Z?

_Inhale._

Darvish's head is centered in the crosshairs, a smile on his face as he laughs. He has no idea what's coming.

_Hold._

He lowers the barrel a millimeter and pulls the trigger.

The bullet breaks through the window and digs into the oak table, sending splinters shooting up at Darvish's face. He's too far to hear anything, but he can see it: Darvish leaping up, eyes automatically going to the window; Darvish's wife jumping to her feet, mouth open in a scream, running from the table.

_Hold._

Darvish moves to follow his wife. He pulls the trigger again, cracks a tile in front of Darvish's feet. Darvish backs up, corralled towards the table. Right where he wants him.

_Exhale._

The man glares out the window, mouthing a word, a name.

_Inhale._

'Mitchell?'

_Hold._

The next shot has Darvish diving under the table.

He follows the motion as Darvish pulls out his phone and dials, shouting into the receiver.

_Exhale._

He watches. Waits.

_Inhale._

The phone next to his knee rings.

_Hold._

**XXXX**

Nothing moved except for his eyes, flicking down to glance at the screen. His heart stuttered to see Travis's name, though he knew it wasn't Travis calling. Larabee had Travis—she had his phone too.

He picked up the phone, not moving one iota more than he had to. He didn't say anything, just waited, peering back through the scope at Darvish huddled under the table.

"Really, Wes?" Larabee's smarmy voice sighed. "This is a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

Wes placed the phone on the ground, lined up the shot, and fired. Darvish jumped as the bullet bounced inches from his toes.

He picked up the phone again.

"Alright, alright, I get it already," Larabee groused. Wes could hear the tinny sound of Darvish shouting on another phone somewhere. "Would it make you feel better if you spoke to him?"

Wes was afraid he was going to break his phone, he was clutching it so tightly.

"Here," Larabee ordered, voice fading as she pulled the phone away from her mouth. "Talk to your partner," and Wes held his breath and waited, oh god _please_…

"Wes?"

It all whooshed out of him in a second, and something tight and scared in his belly loosened a touch. "Travis." Still alive. He was _still alive._

"Oh, Wesley Mitchell, when I get my hands on you—"

Larabee took the phone back before Travis could finish the threat, and Wes almost cried out. Don't take him away, don't—!

"As you see, your partner is alive. And he'll stay that way, so long as you do what we want."

"What?" Wes snapped, itching to pull the trigger again. Not on Darvish, but right into Larabee's face. That was one death he didn't think he'd regret.

"I told you, Wes. I have a job opportunity for you."

Wes didn't even hesitate. "Where?" He'd gone too far to turn back now. So long as Travis was safe, he'd deal with everything else that came after.

If he saved Travis, it didn't matter what happened to him.

"Not so fast, Mitchell," Larabee chided. "I can't just give you the details. You might go running straight to the feds."

"Larabee…"

"Wait outside your hotel, thirty minutes. And Wes? Don't be late." She hung up, an all too clear message to what would happen if Wes wasn't there on time.

He started packing up.

**XXXX**

He was waiting no more than five minutes when the non-descript brown minivan pulled up. Wes wouldn't have given it a second glance on the street. The only indication it wasn't as innocent as it appeared was the tinted windows on all sides.

A heavy thug climbed out of the driver's side. Larabee leaned out the passenger window, smiling cheekily at Wes. "I told you you'd say yes, didn't I?"

The look Wes shot her could have melted steel. "I see your arm is all healed up."

"Oh, that?" She held up her wrist, without sling or cast. "Wasn't actually real. It's good for getting people to let down their guards, though. No one thinks an injured woman is a threat." Her lips curved upward. "Did it work on you?"

"No. I know you too well to ever think you're harmless."

"True." Larabee raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "Very true. It worked on your partner like a charm, though."

Wes was moving before he realized. The thug's meaty hand on his chest was the only thing that stopped him, and while Wes _did_ know ways to get past the guy, he didn't know where Travis was, and he couldn't risk it. He wasn't going to take that chance.

He settled back, fists clenched at his side, and just glared at Larabee.

"Phone," the thug said. Wes handed it over without a word. The thug pulled out the battery, then stomped on the casing. Wes only winced a little (it was an expensive phone, okay, they didn't have to _break_ it).

"Arms," the thug ordered, and Wes suffered through the pat-down with ill humor. "You really think I'm wearing a wire?" he demanded of both Larabee and the thug. "I spent ten years hiding all this, you really think I told the feds and ruined my life _now?_"

"Can't be too careful," Larabee said cheerfully. "Plus, he's checking for weapons."

The thug pulled out a length of wire, tucked beneath his belt. With a pointed look at Wes, the thug handed the wire over to Larabee.

"A garrote?" Larabee clucked her tongue. "Really, Mitchell, that's not your style."

"I was saving that for you."

"Oh, you do know the way to a girl's heart." She tucked the wire into her jacket and waved a hand. "Continue."

Wes drew the line at letting the thug touch his rifle. "I don't know where your hands have been. This is a finely-tuned instrument, you'll probably break it in your big fat paws." The thug looked at Larabee, and after a brief conversation, the thug handed the case over to her.

"Nice to see you keep your toys in good condition," she said, picking up the scope and peering through it. Wes clenched his fingers again. "Makes it easier. So hard to pull off a hit when your weapon is dirty."

Gritting his teeth, Wes spat out, "Can we get this over with already."

"One last thing." The thug came forward with a zip-tie, and Wes had to grind his teeth together as he held his hands together. "Come on, Wes, you know better than that." Larabee twirled her finger. "Behind the back."

He thought he was going to break his jaw, he was clenching his teeth so hard. But he couldn't fight back, not until he had Travis _safe_. So he acquiesced.

"Looks good." Larabee tapped the rifle case, a quick drumbeat, and grinned. "Good to have you back, Mitchell."

"We'll see about that," Wes snarled, stomping forward as the thug pulled the back door open.

A second thug sat in the far back, staring at him with a stony expression, and in the middle was…Travis, his hands similarly bound and a look of angry betrayal on his face. Wes hesitated only a moment before climbing in, settling beside his partner.

_I'm sorry_, he said silently, _I'm so sorry, I'm doing this for you, please don't hate me._ But the words got stuck in his throat, so he just sat back and glared daggers at the back of Larabee's head.

She beamed over at the two of them. "This is going to be fun. Who's ready for a road trip?"

Thug number one started the van, and Wes closed his eyes.

No turning back now.

**XXXX**

"So," Travis said. Wes glanced over. Travis was watching him, eyes dark, and under the anger his expression was…inscrutable. Unusual. Travis was usually so easy to read.

"So you're a hitman."

"Was," Wes corrected. "I _was_ a hitman."

The truth came out easier than he thought it would. Maybe it was just because Travis already knew, so there was no use hiding it anymore.

Travis's glower became more pronounced. "Right. 'Cuz you retired. Got rid of your membership tattoo and everything." He scanned Wes, at the dark clothes and the black gloves. "Or did you?"

"I did. I retired before I joined the Academy." He flexed his fingers, leather brushing his fingertips, reminding him just how wrong he'd been. He hadn't gotten out at all. "I just…didn't get rid of my stuff."

"Why the hell not?!" Travis lashed out. "In case you needed to _shoot_ someone?"

The words latched on like barbs, sharp enough to draw blood. Wes refrained from flinching only because he knew Larabee was watching, gauging just how much of a weakness Travis truly was to him.

When Wes didn't say anything, Travis scoffed, shaking his head. "Wow. It just goes to show." He leaned back, stretching his legs as far as he could, and kept glaring at Wes. "Be honest. How many people _have _you killed?"

It was on the tip of his tongue, and Wes bit his cheek to keep it in. There was already enough disgust and betrayal on Travis's face, he didn't want to add more.

But could he really keep lying to Travis _now_, when everything was already out?

He sighed and confessed, "More than a dozen, less than two."

"Huh." Travis scowled out the window. "Not sure if that's better or worse."

"Then what?" Wes asked, but Travis didn't answer.

A few minutes passed.

"You're taking this rather well," Wes remarked.

"Oh, you think?" Travis rolled his eyes. "I've been kidnapped and I found out my partner is a former hitman who's been lying to me the entire time I knew him. I am, in fact, freaking the fuck out. I would leap over this seat and throttle you except I'm tied up and also I'm pretty sure Brutus would shoot me." He jerked his head to the backseat. Wes followed the motion; thug number two was a stocky mountain of a man with a scar on his face. 'Brutus' fit.

"What do you call the driver?"

Travis kicked the back of his seat with a frustrated sound. "Chuckles. I thought about going with 'The damn bastard that knocked me out and tied me up', but that was too long."

"I see." Wes pursed his lips, nodding at Larabee. "And her?"

"Bitch."

"Thank you!" Larabee chimed without glancing back.

Wes leaned over, murmuring under his breath. "She's also a psychopath, so…" He made a gesture meaning _Tone down and back off, really, don't test this._

"What, like…?" Travis pulled a face that translated to, _Some of my ex-girlfriends that I really should have seen the warning signs for?_

"No, more like…" Wes frowned. There was no good way to silently imply, _She'll slice your neck open with a rusty fork if you piss her off, _so he simply said it.

"She'll slice your neck open with a rusty fork if you piss her off."

"That was only one time," Larabee sing-songed, "and it wasn't even a _little _rusty. Besides, you didn't hear what he was saying to me."

Travis stared wide-eyed at the back of her head, before clearing his throat. "Right then."

It seemed a good idea to just _not talk_ for a while after that.

**XXXX**

When the van stopped, Travis went tense. Wes kept himself loose-limbed, feigning nonchalance even though he was anything but.

"We there yet?" Travis asked, peering out the window.

"Not yet," Larabee said, pulling a gun from her jacket. She started screwing a silencer on the end. They both tensed up.

"Where are we going?" Wes asked as calmly as he could, peering subtly out the window. Unfortunately, the view was a generic gas station on the side of the highway, not a landmark to be seen.

There was, however, a second minivan at another pump, and inside the station store he could see a mom and two kids. His stomach clenched, eyes going to the gun in Larabee's hands. Children wouldn't stop her from using it.

"Now that would ruin the surprise." Larabee clucked her tongue disapprovingly, turning around in her seat. She made a signal, and Brutus leaned over, grabbed Travis by the back of the neck, and pushed him forward.

Wes saw the glint of a knife and was halfway out of his seat with a yell before he could help himself, all thoughts of soccer moms and children forgotten. Brutus shoved him aside with ease, and he took the knife and—

cut the ties around Travis's wrists.

Wes blinked, and Travis stared down at his hands, turning them around. No blood. Judging by the look on his partner's face, that wasn't what Travis expected to happen either.

While he was still stunned, Brutus did the same to Wes, using just as much rough force. Wes rubbed his wrists, glaring at Larabee, who was watching him and grinning, eyes glinting.

He'd just given her one more piece of leverage to use against him, and it galled him more than he wanted to admit.

Wes glared scorchingly at Larabee. "What the hell?" He kept his voice level; yelling wouldn't help anything.

"Bathroom break," the woman said, gesturing outside. "So there's a few ground rules. First, no credit cards. Don't want anyone tracking them. In fact, how about you just hand over all your cards right now."

Sharing a look, Travis dug out his wallet and handed over his cards. Wes just deposited the whole thing into her palm. It's not like he would need any of it after this.

"Good. Now, second rule: No trans fats. Chuckles is watching his health." She nodded towards the driver, off getting gas. "Got it? Good. Third rule. No running."

"Or what?" Travis challenged because he was a stupid reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation. Wes shot him a warning look that Travis promptly ignored.

Larabee smiled sweetly. "Well, it's simple. If you run—" she pointed at Wes with the gun, "—I'll shoot your partner. And if you—" the gun moved to Travis, "—try to run, I'll shoot him."

"You'll shoot _him?_" Travis questioned.

At the same time, Wes said, "You need me."

Travis scowled at him—Wes ignored it.

She smiled, saccharine sweet. "I do need you. But you don't shoot with your legs." She continued before Wes could say anything else. "And if you both try to run, I'll shoot…them." The gun aimed at the station. "Mommy goes first. Then the clerk. And then the boys."

Wes clenched his fists, refusing to look at his partner. Not because he didn't care, but because he did, and if he saw the same rage he felt reflected on Travis's face, he might do something rash.

He didn't know how long Nevermore had been watching him, but he wasn't going to give them any reason to kill innocents.

And he wasn't going to do anything that would hurt Travis. And they knew it.

They had too much leverage on him.

"Alright. I think that's all." She scanned them both. "Wes, lose the hat and jacket and gloves, you look like a killer." She tapped her lips as Wes complied. "There was one more thing, what was it…"

"You shoot yourself in the face and get rid of the problem?" Travis muttered. Wes shot him a look.

Larabee brightened. "Oh, right. If you try to warn the clerk or get help, it's open season. Everyone dies, Travis dies, and Wes will never walk again."

She beamed at them. "I think that's all. See you in a jif."

**XXXX**

There was one stall in the cramped bathroom. Travis stood glowering by the sinks when Wes came out, arms crossed. An apt description would be 'thunderous'.

"I'm sorry, you actually _worked_ with that psychopathic bitch?"

Wes shoved him aside, using a paper towel to turn on the water (no way was he touching _that_ faucet). "She seemed perfectly normal at first," he said with a shrug. "It wasn't until our fourth mission I realized she was, you know, _insane_."

"What happened on your fourth…mission?" Travis said the last word like it hurt, like he couldn't match a 'mission' with killing people.

Wes gave him a flat stare. "She sliced a man's throat open with a rusty fork because he pissed her off."

Travis's eyes widened. "Oh, that was…okay, you were serious. Wow. Good to know."

Wes finished washing his hands and dried them, seemingly intent on his actions. He said casually, "You can make a run for it."

Travis gaped at him. "You…are you serious? If I go they'll shoot you!"

"In the legs," Wes pointed out in what he thought was a very reasonable tone. "I'll survive. Besides, if you're gone, they don't have any leverage. I can say no to the job."

"And _then_ they'll shoot you in the face." Wes shrugged, no big deal, and Travis continued to stare at him. "Do you honestly think I'd run off to save my own skin and leave you behind?"

Wes got another paper towel and dried his already-dry hands. "You should. It's the smart thing to do."

"Wes, you're my partner! I'm not leaving you behind!"

The paper towel stopped, and something painful thudded in his chest. "Am I?" he said carefully, watching Travis through his lashes. "Still your partner?"

"That's…" Travis groaned, ran his hands over his face. "I don't know, man!" He started pacing the small bathroom; Travis always through better when he was moving. "In my head you are. But then I try to reconcile _my partner _with an assassin that killed more than a dozen people and I can't!"

Wes turned to face him fully, expression carefully constructed to show nothing. "Then don't."

"Don't what?"

"Reconcile them." Wes looked down at his hands again, wiping his fingers. "The cop you've been partnered with _isn't _the same hitman who worked for Nevermore. You can't say they're the same because they're _not_."

"Bull_shit_. They're still _you_."

"They're not, though." He swallowed, looked at Travis's angry, baffled _Stop talking in circles _face, and tried to explain. "Did they tell you why I left? Larabee and her thugs. Did they tell you _why_ I retired?"

Travis's jaw worked. "No."

Now Wes met Travis's gaze like that would help impart what he was saying. "I left because Anthony Padua died, and I started caring. About everything, even the people I was sent to kill." He smiled, a little bitterly. "You can't be a good hitman if you can't pull the trigger."

It took a few tries for Travis to say anything. "So you didn't leave because it was _wrong_?"

"It was a job and I was good at it." Wes tossed the paper towel away before it shredded on his skin. "I was good at compartmentalizing, I was good at doing the math, and I was good at walking away without letting it affect me. The money didn't hurt either. I'd probably still be doing it if it weren't for Anthony."

"But you were killing people! It's _wrong!_"

"You think I don't know that?" Wes slammed a hand on the counter, ignoring the way Travis flinched. (Travis was _afraid _of him, now? That ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it.) "I knew it was wrong and I _didn't care_. Okay? I didn't care because I didn't _let_ myself care, and I was okay with that. I did my job, I earned my pay, and at the end of the day I went home. End of story."

Travis swallowed. "You killed over a dozen people, Wes," he said softly, like Wes didn't know that, like he wasn't haunted by those faces every day.

"What do you want me to say, Travis?" Wes turned to the mirror, staring at his own reflection. At the monster who woke up every morning searching for forgiveness, and finding none because there was none to give. "I'm sorry? Because I am, but that doesn't change anything. That doesn't bring back the dead."

He hung his head, taking a breath to calm the inferno in his chest. Not rage, not wrath—he just needed a sliver of anger, a candle flame that he could contain and use. Anything else would just lead to loss of control, and he couldn't afford that right now.

When he finally had his composure back, he looked up again, met his partner's eyes in the glass. "I can't change what happened, Travis. The only thing I can do now is try to save as many people as I can, to make up for what I did. It won't even the score, I know that, but it's the least I can do."

Travis opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out. Eventually, he looked away first.

Wes sighed, bracing himself against the counter. "Look," he said, weary resignation in his voice. "Just go. Run. I can provide a distraction so you can get away." He gave a thin smile. "I'll save you, if nothing else."

"Oh, no you don't." Travis stomped up, shock swept away with ire. Wes half-turned, and Travis jabbed a finger into his chest. "You don't get the pull that self-sacrificing bullshit on _me_. I don't care _what_ you think you're atoning for, I'm not leaving _my partner_ behind!"

Now it was Wes's turn to be shocked. Even after all this, even after Travis _knew, _he still used those words? "They won't kill me. You can get away."

"Yeah, well, funny thing. Even with all this, I still kind of care about your sociopathic, compartmentalizing ass, so I'm _not leaving!_" He stomped around the room, waving his arms. "Okay, okay, let's figure this out. This guy they want to shoot, can you do it?"

And Wes had to force down the swelling of emotion in this throat, because he was afraid if he let it loose he would break down right here. That was just another form of losing control, and they couldn't afford that either.

"Sure," he said. He wasn't sure he sounded completely calm, judging by the way Travis glanced at him, but he swallowed and tried again. "Sure, I can shoot him."

Travis's eyes narrowed. "You said you couldn't kill anymore," he accused in a _Have you been lying about this the whole time too? _tone.

He really didn't get it, did he? "Travis, they have _you_. I can kill for you."

"You shouldn't kill for me, man." Travis shook his head, jaw jumping. "Not at the expense of someone else."

No, he didn't get it at all. Wes moved forward, gently grabbed his partner's arms to still him. "Travis. If it comes down to you and anyone else, I will chose you. Every time. Because you're _my_ partner."

A myriad of emotions fluttered across Travis's face; surprise, nervousness, wariness, hope, fear. He chuckled uncertainly. "Wow. That's…uh…that almost sounds like a love confession."

Why not, Wes was spilling everything else here. "If you like."

For the hundredth time, Travis could only gape at him. He jerked out of Wes's grasp. "That's…this is…_not the time,_ Wes! They're going to have you kill someone!"

"Not until tomorrow, probably," Wes said in his _I'm being perfectly logical_ voice. "It's too late now."

"Okay." Travis nodded, determination rising as he pushed all other problems aside, focusing on this. "That means we have until tomorrow to come up with a plan."

"Travis, it will all be fine."

"It will _not_ be fine! I'm not letting you kill a man for me!" Travis pointed at Wes. "I refuse to be the reason you fell off the wagon, okay, I _won't_. Get that through your head."

Despite the entire situation, Wes couldn't help smiling. "Got it." It was almost like their normal banter. If Travis could still sound so much like _himself_, even knowing what he knew, then maybe things weren't completely hopeless.

Travis nodded decisively when Wes didn't say anything else. "Until tomorrow, then." He eyed the door with a grimace. "We'd better get back out there, before she sends her thugs to fetch us."

Wes followed Travis out, feeling lighter than he had since he'd realized Travis was taken.

**XXXX**

Larabee was waiting by the van when they came out, gun resting inconspicuously against her thigh. She gave them a small, disappointed frown when she saw them. "Aww, I was kind of hoping you'd make a run for it." Her head tilted to the side curiously. "What took you so long?"

"We were in there planning our great escape," Wes said dryly. Travis coughed harshly behind him.

As Wes predicted, Larabee laughed, a bright, sunshiny sort of sound. "That's a waste. I would have had a quickie instead. _Much_ more fun."

Travis sputtered again, for an entirely different reason.

With a glance at her watch, Larabee tucked her gun in her jacket and jerked her head to the van. "Come on, boys, back inside. We've got places to be, people to assassinate."

Reluctantly, they climbed inside, enduring the rude handling as Brutus zip-tied their wrists again.

The door slammed shut behind them.

**XXXX**

It was another two or three hours before the van finally stopped. Chuckles got out and disappeared, coming back with two motel keys. Larabee took one and they all climbed out.

The parking lot was empty, and only a few lights were on. It was the sort of place where people didn't ask questions; Wes was sure even if they called out, no one would so much as glance out the window.

"Welcome to San Francisco," Larabee said with a grandiose wave of her arm, encompassing the entirety of the Sunnyside Motel. "I'll be in room 47. You four will be next door in 48, and Chuckles and Brutus will make sure you don't do anything silly like try to escape. Same rules as the gas station apply." She hefted Wes's rifle case up. "And in case you're wondering, I have more than this on me if you _do_ try to bolt."

"All four of us?" Wes asked, eyeing Chuckles and Brutus. "Bit cramped, don't you think?"

"But necessary." She started towards her room. "Rest up, boys, big day tomorrow."

Room 48 was about as tacky as a motel room could get. Chuckles immediately commandeered the queen bed by closest to the door, and Brutus crossed his arms with a scowl, leaving it clear where Wes and Travis were supposed to sleep.

They both hesitated, eyeing the remaining queen. "I can sleep on the floor," Travis offered, though his voice showed how fond of _that_ idea he was.

Wes rolled his eyes, kicking off his boots. "Just get in the bed, Travis." His own hesitation had nothing to do with sharing a bed and everything to do with the fact that this was a _motel bed _that god-knew how many people had done atrocities in, but he forced himself under the covers. Larabee was right. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, and he'd need all the rest he could get.

After a minute, he felt Travis settle in behind him, pressing his back up against Wes's. More for comfort than warmth, Wes though. Familiar ports in a storm.

Brutus turned off the light and settled into the chair by the window, watching them through in the neon coming through the curtains.

With Travis safe and alive right behind him, Wes tried to sleep.

**XXXX**

Sleep didn't come.

The clock's LED blinked 3:12 when Travis shifted. "Hey, Wes, you awake?"

There was no point feigning sleep, so he made an affirmative sound.

The bed shuddered as Travis rolled over, staring at the back of his neck. "I've been wondering. How did you get into this in the first place?"

"Nevermore?" At Travis's affirmation, Wes rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I suppose you of all people deserve the truth."

"Damn straight I do." Travis tucked an arm under his head, made himself comfortable. "When did it start?"

There was really no point in hiding anything at this point, and Wes could care less their bodyguard heard everything. He took a breath. "Third semester of law school." Wes folded his hands on his stomach, let himself be drawn back. "I was interning at Darvish & Bowden—this was back before Mr. Punjar became a partner. It was unpaid, of course, I was only a student. On top of that I had my classes and a job. Basically, I was a broke, starving college student."

Travis's silence encouraged him to continue more than words could have. "One day, _the _Mr. Darvish took an interest in me. I didn't know why, but when a partner notices you and says he's impressed, you don't ask questions. It's the sort of thing that leads to getting hired right out of school. We did some stuff together. One weekend he took me shooting. I guess he liked what he saw, because the next day he offered me a job, one that would pay a lot of money, enough to cover my schooling, living expenses, everything."

"A job killing people." Wes nodded, and Travis made a sound of disgust. "So what, he tells you to shoot and you're okay with that?"

"Broke, starving college student," Wes repeated, like that explained everything. "Besides, it's not like the first person he had me shoot was some soccer mom. The first few times, they were rapists, murderers. Scum of the earth. It was easy to say the world would be better off without them and pull the trigger."

He sighed. "After a while they graduated me up to loan sharks, drug dealers. Sent me out on teams to take out politicians, businessmen. I stopped asking questions. I didn't care about these people, didn't care why someone wanted them dead. Plus, the money was good." He held out his arms, miming shooting a rifle. "They pointed, and I pulled the trigger. Just business."

"Easy as that."

"I'm good at compartmentalizing."

Travis frowned, chewed on his lip. "So you assassinated twelve to twenty-four people like it was nothing…and then…Anthony happened?"

"And then Anthony happened," Wes confirmed. He had to close his eyes against a rush of pain—after all this time it still hurt. "It was just another case, a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I got too invested. I _cared_. When he died…"

He took a shaky breath. "Once you start to care, it's not easy to shut it back down. I suffered at work, too afraid to make another mistake like that. Then, my first mission after…I couldn't pull the trigger. Not because it was _wrong_. I just looked through the scope, and I remembered Anthony's parents crying while I tried to explain why he was dead. I saw this woman and I thought, _She could be someone's sister, daughter, mother. What if they cry over her?_" He sighed again. "I _cared_, and you can't be a hitman if you care about your victims."

"So you left." Travis frowned. "And they let you?"

Wes laughed, both at his partner's incredulity and his own ignorance back then. Oh, he should have been more suspicious, but… "I was just glad they were letting me leave. I didn't think much of it."

"Yeah, _that_ was genius."

"Yeah, well…" Wes shrugged best he could while lying down. "They knew I was no good to them, and I wouldn't tell anyone, not if it would implicate myself. I figured they'd washed their hands of me."

A long, contemplative pause before Travis said, "And how's that working for you?"

Wes laughed, a little helplessly. "Apparently they didn't let me go so much as wait for me to find it. People with the personality to be hitmen don't exactly grow on trees, you know."

"…find what?"

Easy as can be, Wes said, "Someone I cared about more than the victims."

This time Travis's silence was heavy and upset. "I'm not that important, Wes."

Wes turned to him, studying him, hard edges softened in the red LED. Softly, gently, he said, "You are to me."

There was nothing to hold back. Not anymore. He might as well bare everything.

There wouldn't be a happily ever after, so it wasn't going to hurt anything.

Travis stared at him for a long time, eyes unreadable in the dark, looking like he was watching something new, and precious, and infinitely unfathomable.

**XXXX**

Wes must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, Larabee was leaning over him, bright with glee.

"Isn't this sweet?" she purred, eyes moving between him and Travis. "Like a teddy bear."

Which was about when Wes realized he'd wrapped himself around Travis like an octopus. Even better (or worse) Travis was awake, looking extremely unnerved—though whether that was from the cuddling or Larabee looming over him, Wes couldn't tell.

She leaned back, still grinning, and clapped lightly. "Alright, up and at 'em, boys, we got a schedule to keep. Breakfast and coffee's on the table. Let's go, let's go."

Slowly, Wes let go of Travis, sitting up. This was it, then. Today was the day.

He couldn't bring himself to look at Travis as he stood.

Breakfast was a quick, cheap affair that tasted like cardboard on his tongue. The coffee was little better, too bitter and stringent. It scalded on the way down.

Wes didn't talk. He'd said everything he needed to, everything that mattered, last night. Apparently Travis didn't have anything to say either, because he stared at his food and chewed woodenly.

Wes wanted to grip Travis's hand, reassure him that it was all going to be alright, but he kept his hands to himself and drank another cup of bitter coffee.

Then, after what felt like no time had passed, Larabee stood, checking her watch, and announced, "Time to go, boys. Let's get this show on the road!"

**XXXX**

It was an office building like any other, forty stories of glass and steel towering over the sidewalk. The name meant nothing, in the quick glimpse he got before he was whisked into the building across the street.

The Muzak in the elevator was a cheery counterpart to the tension inside, and Wes stepped out feeling edgier than he had going in.

The fourteenth floor was completely empty. Wes idly wondered if that was coincidence or by design. It didn't really matter, but it kept him from focusing on what was coming next.

But there was no avoiding it when Larabee stopped in front of a door and chirruped, "This is it."

Wes's hands spasmed, and he could barely take the case from Brutus without dropping it. He glanced at Travis, noted the scared misery on his face, and his own stomach clenched. He forced himself to breathe, for his fingers to relax.

_Inhale. Exhale._

"Wes, you're in here. Chuckles will go with you, show you where your target will be. Your job is to shoot the man at the front of the room. Easy as pie."

"What did he do?" Wes asked softly, avoiding Travis's glare.

"The target?" Larabee's eyebrows rose. "I don't know. Don't really care. I thought you'd grown out of those questions."

"Apparently not."

The woman shrugged carelessly. "Does it matter? Your job is to simply point and shoot, because if you don't I get to put a bullet between your partner's eyes. Capiche?"

Wes ground his teeth together and glared daggers at her. "Capishe." She'd made it clear what would happen if he didn't cooperate, didn't she realize he wasn't going to fight her on this?

He turned to go, unable to look at his partner. He couldn't bear to see the face Travis was making—it could break him, and right now, that was the last thing he needed.

"Wes! Dammit, don't _do_ this!"

It wasn't the anguished cry that made him whirl around (don't look don't feel don't see) but the meaty thump of flesh on flesh and the pained groan that followed. Travis crouched on the floor where he'd fallen, clutching his face, but his gaze was steady on Wes.

"You don't have to do this. _Don't do this._"

It wasn't horror or disgust or betrayal on Travis's face, none of the dozens of reactions Wes expected. It was pleading, pure and simple. A heartfelt plea that Wes wouldn't sell his soul to the devil.

It was too late. Wes had sold it a long time ago. He had no regrets about doing this.

Travis had saved Wes, more than he would ever know. Now it was time for Wes to save Travis.

He wanted to kneel on the floor, cup his partner's face in his hands and swear with every breath he had that everything would be alright. But he knew neither of the thugs would let it happen, and Larabee was watching with glittering eyes, waiting for _some_ reason to hurt Travis, to give Wes more incentive, so all he did was stand there.

And he smiled, the gentlest, most reassuring smile he could find inside of himself. "It's okay, Travis," he promised, in a voice that said, _I love you, you will never have to be afraid again_. "Everything is going to be okay."

"It's not okay!" Travis lunged to his feet, and Brutus was just _there_, a solid mountain wrapped around his partner, preventing him from moving. Travis didn't seem to notice, straining against the bulk holding him back, trying to reach Wes. "Don't you dare go in that room! Wes!"

"It's okay," Wes repeated, turning towards the door. Chuckles hovered behind him, a massive shadow to watch his every move and make sure everything went according to plan. "It will all be okay, Travis."

He stepped through the doorway, and Chuckles closed the door on Travis's anguished, angry cry.

"_Wes!_"

Wes closed his eyes. Took a deep breath and held it.

It would all be okay.

Time to get to work.

_Inhale._

**XXXX**

"He's not going to do it."

Bitch—what had Wes said her name was, Larabee?—glanced up from her window perch. "Hmmm?"

Travis scowled, tugging at the ropes around his wrists. "He's not going to do it. He's not going to shoot anyone."

A smiled tugged at her fire-engine red lips, like an adult amused by a child's naivety. Sinuous as a snake, she pushed away from the window, sliding across the floor with hardly a sound. "Do you really think so?"

"I _know_ so." He tugged at the ropes again, feeling it give. Not much, but enough. He could work with this. Brutus was all the way on the other side of the room, watching the door and the hallway, he wasn't paying any attention to Travis. Just because he was tied up didn't mean he couldn't be a threat. "He's not a killer. He won't do it."

"He _is_ a killer," the woman purred, circling his chair. He craned his head to follow her, uneasy about having her out of his sight. "Or did you miss the memo?"

"He's not a killer _anymore_. He quit, remember? He's not going to do it."

"Oh, yes, he will." Larabee stopped in front of him, leaning down. "Do you want to know why?"

Travis almost spat in her face. Then he remembered Wes's story (_rusty fork_) and just glared at her instead.

She laughed, perching on his lap. "Once upon a time," she sing-songed, running her fingers up his chest, "a little boy died, and Wes pulled his heart out of his chest and bled over everyone he touched, in the hopes that it would wash the blood off his hands. And then he met a man, a fine, _fine_ man…" Her nails scraped along his neck, sending chills down his spine. He jerked his head back, and she just laughed again.

"He met a man," Larabee continued, wriggling further into his lap, "and instead of bleeding, Wes gave his heart away." She leaned in, breath brushing across his ear. "He gave his heart away, and now I have it in my hands. _That's _why he's going to do it."

Travis shoved at her with his shoulder, warnings be damned. "Get _off_ me, you crazy bitch."

With a disgruntled sigh, she complied. "I thought we were having a moment."

All he could do was stare at her. "You're insane. You're completely insane."

"I'm also right." She twirled towards the window again, peering eagerly across the street. "He's going to shoot. Because he _cares_. About _you_." Larabee 'tsked', shaking her head. "Really, he ought to know better."

Travis twisted his wrists, working the ropes, and silently prayed. _Don't, Wes. Don't do this. I swear to god I will kill you myself if you do this. Please…_

But Wes was in the other room, might as well be a million miles away, and he couldn't hear a thing.

Larabee smirked at her watch. "Just a few more minutes now…"

**XXXX**

_Inhale._

Focus. Push it aside. Don't think about it.

_Exhale_.

Assemble. Position. Aim.

_Inhale._

Don't think about the man behind him, watching him with dead eyes, ready to say the word if he so much as thinks about refusing to do what he's told.

_Exhale._

Don't think about the woman in the other room, deadly as a viper and eager for him to disobey so she can punish him, not for today but for that day so many years ago, when he walked away and left everything she valued behind. _Traitors can't be trusted,_ she'd said once, standing over a headless body, _there's nothing more vile than a man who turns his back._

_Inhale._

Don't think about his partner, alone with a madwoman, scared and upset and probably thinking the worst. Don't think about Travis's eyes, agonized as he'd walked away, faith cracking as the door slid shut. Don't think about his voice, the way he _begged_, praying Wes wouldn't do this because this would ruin him, ruin them _both_ in ways they wouldn't be able to come back from. Don't think don't think _don'think._

Don't.

Think.

Just breathe.

_Exhale._

He peers through the scope, hands rock-steady, and pushes it aside. Nothing now but the job, the weapon in his hands and the person in the crosshairs.

No feeling. No emotion. Just a paper target.

_Inhale._

It's all going to be okay.

_Exhale._

In the room across the street, fifty people stand and clap as a man enters the room. He doesn't know who this man is. Businessman, politician, HR representative. It doesn't matter. He has a job and he is here to do it. There's no other option.

Travis doesn't have any other option.

_Inhale._

The man walks to the front of the room. He follows him, tracks his movements, waits for the shot. _Shoot the man at the front of the room,_ she'd said, so he waits, counts the steps.

The man stops on the stage, adjusts the microphone. Smiles. Opens his mouth to speak.

_Hold._

He pulls the trigger and a man falls down.

_Exhale._

**XXXX**

The retort was loud and sharp, echoing in the empty rooms. The bitch at the window smiled, vindictive and wicked as she stared across the street.

Something in Travis's chest cracked in half, everything he'd believed in going shaky under his feet. Wes had done it. He'd shot that guy. If he'd missed Larabee wouldn't be smiling. He'd gone and he'd just…

"He did it." His voice reflected his thoughts; blank and numb with shock.

Larabee turned from the window, eyes bright. "I told you he would." She sashayed across the room, pleased as the cat that ate the canary _and _the goldfish. "Oh, this is too perfect. First we crack him, and then we _break_ him."

Travis blinked at her. "What?"

He'd never seen a more venomous smile on a human being. "He's done his part," she said calmly, pulling the gun out of her jacket. "And now it's time for you to do yours."

Understanding came slowly, mind still stunned because _he did it, he really did it, how could he?_ "You're going to kill me." Not a question. "You were always going to kill me."

"Of course."

He stared up at her, started working the ropes again (he'd stopped when he heard the shot, and it probably wasn't enough time now but damned if he was going to lie down and take his death. He'd go out fighting or he wouldn't go out at all). "Why?" She paused, and he pointed out, "You might as well tell me, you're going to kill me anyway."

"True." She shrugged. "It's because we want him back. Did you know, we've been watching him for _years_, waiting to find a pressure point. Something we could push to break him completely." She grinned. "And then we found you."

She trailed the barrel of the gun across his jaw. "That shot he just took cracked the surface. Your death will shatter him. Then we'll glue the pieces back together exactly how we want, and he'll never walk away again." She stepped back, pointed the gun between his eyes, and she almost seemed sincere when she said, "Thank you for everything, Travis Marks."

What happened next was a bit of a confusing blur. Travis yanked at the ropes still tying him down, ducking his head as though that would save him. At the same time, the door burst open and a bunch of people in tac gear swarmed in, yelling at the top of their lungs. Larabee whirled, gun up, and then there were shots and gun smoke filled the air.

"Detective, are you alright? Detective Marks?"

Travis opened eyes he didn't realize he'd closed, blinking into the face of a concerned FBI agent. Another agent was behind him, cutting through the ropes, and two more were subduing Brutus.

Larabee lay on the floor, blank eyes wide open. Even in death, she looked surprised, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Travis could understand.

"What's going on?" One of the agents grabbed his arm and started leading him out of the room. He jerked out of the grip. "Why are you here? _How _are you here? What is going _on?_ Where's Wes?"

"Detective, please come with us. Agent O'Donnell will explain everything."

"I want to know _now,_" Travis all but shouted. "Where is _Wes?_"

"Detective Marks!" The agent grabbed his arm again. "You need to come with us!" Travis was forced into the elevator. He twisted, looking back towards the room Wes had disappeared into, but there were too many agents in the way, and he couldn't see anything before the doors closed.

A second agent had to grab his arm and help haul him out of the elevator, he was struggling against them so hard. "Let me _go!_" They didn't, started dragging him towards an ambulance, ready and waiting to check him over. "Let me _go_, dammit, _where is my partner?!"_

Travis freed one of his arms from an agent, half-spun out of her grip—and saw him.

Through the sea of blue and black, there was a flash of blonde hair, Wes's head frantically moving back and forth, searching, searching—

Found.

Their eyes met through the bodies, and the world might as well have stopped. For a moment it was just him and Wes, separated by a dozen feet but closer than ever before.

The terror on Wes's face melted away as soon as he locked eyes with Travis, leaving behind something serene. At peace. And Travis saw the moment he stopped fighting, when his body gave and he let the FBI agents shove him to the waiting car.

Time sped back up, and Travis lunged for the car. "_Wes!_"

But the agents grabbed him, hauled him back to the ambulance, and the last sight he had of Wes was his partner sitting stiffly in the back of a black sedan, eyes straight ahead, looking calmer than Travis had ever seen him.

**XXXX**

"Agent O'Donnell speaking."

"Agent O'Donnell, this is Wes Mitchell, from the task force."

"Ah, Detective Mitchell, what can I—"

"I don't have a lot of time, so I need you to shut up and listen."

"Excuse me?"

"I was in Nevermore."

A long, heavy silence.

Wes's voice sped up, like he had to cram as many words in as he could. "It was a long time ago. I got out—I thought I got out, but it turns out they've been watching me, waiting to bring me back." He paused. "They want me to do a job."

"Detective Mitchell, I think you should come in—"

Again, Wes interrupted O'Donnell. "I can't. I need to do the job."

"Detective!"

"They took my partner!" Wes all but yelled into the phone. "They took Travis! I know better than anyone what will happen. If I don't do what they want they will _kill him!_ I'm not about to let that happen, and I won't let you stop me."

"Mitchell, come in. We'll find a way to save your partner. You can even help us."

Wes took a breath, sounding like he was struggling to maintain his composure. "I don't think you understand. This is not a negotiation, Agent. I'm _telling_ you. I'm going to do this."

"If you do this, Mitchell, you will never see the light of day as a free man again."

"Then I guess you'd better get my cell ready." Wes took another breath. "Look, I need you to just _listen._ Stop talking and _listen to me_ and I'll help you get them."

O'Donnell didn't say anything, breathing harshly into the phone.

After a moment, Wes went on. "I don't know who the target is or where they'll be, they aren't going to trust me with that. But I've put a GPS tracker in my boot, they won't think to check there, the number is 4-6-7-7-G-D-4. Go to Kendall at the LAPD, she'll be able to activate it. I can't tell you where we'll be but you can follow it, figure out where we're going and adjust."

"Detective…"

"No. Shut up, okay? Just shut up and listen. Once you figure it out, you can't come in too early. You _can't_, she'll shoot Travis right there, I know she will. You can't risk it. You have to wait for me to take the shot."

"Mitchell!"

"I'll aim for center mass. Your job will be to figure out the target and get a vest on him. I'll go low, people can still survive gut shots if you get them to the hospital in time, but that's all I can promise. It has to look real."

Wes took a third breath, voice muffled like he was talking with his hand in front of his mouth. "After the shot—_after, _do you understand?—that's when you go in. There will be a moment, right after the target goes down, and that's your chance. You get in there, and you save Travis."

"And you?" Agent O'Donnell asked, voice neutrally blank.

"What about me? I don't care if you shoot me or arrest me, you get Travis out of there. You save him, I'll tell you everything I remember about Nevermore."

Carefully, very carefully, O'Donnell asked, "And if we can't save him?"

Wes's voice was dark and empty as graveyard dirt. "You'd better hope you never find out. I have to go now. Do your job, Agent."

The tape clicked off.

**XXXX**

Travis stared at the tape recorder. "I don't…" He ran his hand over his face, sorting it out in his head. "So you were there the whole time?"

O'Donnell nodded, pocketing the recorder. "From the moment the van picked Mitchell up at his hotel."

"Why didn't you get them at the gas station?" Travis demanded, rising from his seat. "Why didn't you arrest them all _before_ Wes shot that guy?"

O'Donnell stared levelly at him, not perturbed an inch. "If we tried to take them at the gas station, there would have been a confrontation. We couldn't risk the civilians present, and we couldn't risk you in the firefight. Detective Marks, please sit down."

Travis sat. Only because standing and yelling wasn't helping anything.

O'Donnell continued to watch him. "We also needed to figure out who the target was. If we could find the target, we could not only protect him, but it would give us another lead in our case against Nevermore. So we waited. And everything came together."

"Except the guy Wes _shot_," Travis snarled, crossing his arms.

The agent sighed. "That was unfortunate. We weren't able to figure out the target in time. But Mr. Rupert is on the road to recovery and is expected to pull through."

"Yeah, that's great." Travis waved aside the victim's health with aplomb, leaning forward. "What's going to happen to _Wes?_"

It was almost pity on the agent's face. Travis wanted to punch that look right off. "Detective Marks, your partn—Wes Mitchell has admitted to being part of a group of assassins and has already confessed to committing more than a dozen hired murders in the past. I'm sorry, but it doesn't matter that he was coerced this time. He's not coming back."

Travis's hands tightened into fists, and he clenched his jaw to keep from spitting in the condescending bastard's face. "I know that. I'm not stupid, okay, I _know_ he's not coming back. But what's going to _happen_ to him?"

The pity only grew more pronounced. "That's not for me to decide. I _am_ sorry, Detective. I hope you can find solace knowing your partner gave himself up for you."

The agent took his leave, quietly shutting the door behind him. Travis just sat there, staring at a point on the wall, and didn't move.

After a while, he slowly dropped his head into his hands and just shook.

He knew Wes gave himself up for Travis. He _knew_, it wasn't like it was a big secret.

That didn't make it _better_.

Solace? Fuck you too, Agent O'Donnell.

**XXXX**

At Captain Sutton's urging, Travis took some time off. The department psychologist had him come in twice a week for three weeks to talk about crap, but Travis had always been good at bullshitting his way around shrinks.

It was harder to lie to Dr. Ryan, but hey, now that his partner was going to jail forever, he didn't have to talk to her anymore, so there was that.

When he finally went back to work, he ignored the looks everyone sent him and just got down to business. He also ignored the empty desk at his side and buckled down on his paperwork.

Eventually, the captain would assign him a new partner, probably someone who'd just transferred in and didn't know the whole story. But for right now, Travis was alone.

He was alone, and he waited. For what, he didn't know. He just…waited.

**XXXX**

When he got the call, he was up and out of his seat in a moment, driving across town without so much as a bye-your-leave. (He figured the captain would understand, once he explained it to him.)

The safe house was a non-descript white bungalow in a boring little suburb. Honestly, Travis would have walked by it a thousand times without looking, if he didn't know. That was kind of the point.

He knocked on the window of the very unsubtle black car sitting across the street. When the window rolled down, Travis grinned at the sunglasses of the agent inside.

"Hi. I'm going on there." He pointed to the house, and he didn't make it a question.

The agent put a finger to his ear, listening to something through the comms, and nodded. "Go right ahead."

"Good chat, man." Travis tapped the roof of the car and bounded up the stairs. Another agent opened the door, this one looking even grimmer than the last, but she just quietly escorted him to the living room.

Wes sat on the couch, frowning at the newspaper in his hands. He didn't look up until Travis cleared his throat; then he did, and his eyes widened to impossible sizes.

"Travis?" Like a man waking from a dream, Wes rose from the couch, one hand reaching out. "You…why are you here?"

Travis rocked on his heels, fighting the urge to just bundle Wes up in his arms. "Agent O'Donnell called. Said you were here." He held out a minute longer before thinking _Fuck it_, and crossed the room in three huge steps. "God, it's good to see you, man," he declared, wrapping his arms around his partner.

Wes clung to him like a drowning man afraid to let go, because if he did all the breath would be stolen from him in an instant.

**XXXX**

The agents were nice enough to give them some privacy, retreating to the kitchen. They were probably eavesdropping, but it was still a decent gesture.

Wes sat on the couch, playing with a loose thread on the arm, and Travis sat in the armchair across from him, studying his partner (still his partner, no matter what had happened).

"So," he said eventually. "How are you doing?"

"Good." Wes nodded. "I'm, I'm doing alright. Better than can be expected, I guess. You?"

"I'm alright." Travis tapped his fingers on the chair, gaze moving to the coffee table. "I'm on desk duty, right now. Cap's looking for another partner. I think he's going through psych evals, trying to find someone I won't traumatize."

Wes snorted. "Like that'll happen."

"I know, right?" They shared a grin before remembering, and then they looked away.

Wes cleared his throat. "How's, ah, everyone taking it?"

Travis puffed his cheeks out. "Well, you know…finding out one of the most hated guys in the precinct was actually a hitman in another life…some people were surprised. Some people weren't. A lot of comments I've gotten into fights about. You know."

Wes picked more vigorously at the couch. "You don't have to defend me anymore, Travis."

"Of course I do. You're _my_ partner, no one is allowed to give you crap except me."

"I'm not exactly your partner anymore."

The awkward silence settled on their shoulders like a scarf, and Travis fiddled with the hem of his jacket. "How's Alex?" he asked after a while.

Wes's shoulders hunched. "Good, I think. Agent O'Donnell said she's doing good. For the most part."

"You haven't talked to her?" Travis asked, eyeing the other man sharply.

"Not…exactly." The loose thread was quickly going to become a hole in the fabric, the rate Wes was picking at it. "She, uh…she didn't take the news well. And, um…she won't take my calls. But the agents assure me she's fine, and they're going to watch her, make sure there aren't any repercussions from Nevermore, so that's…that's good." Wes nodded, almost as though he were trying to convince himself. "That's good."

But Travis could see how much it was hurting him, see it in the lines of his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes, so he searched desperately for another topic.

"Uh…I noticed your new bling."

Wes leapt on the subject change gratefully. "Oh, did you?" He stuck out his leg, showing off the monitor wrapped around his ankle. "What do you think?"

"It's stylish. Classy. Matches your suit."

"I thought so when I picked it out. I was going to go with blue, but, you know, black just _goes_ with so many more things."

Travis snorted, and some of the tension in the room eased. He sat back. "Yeah, what's that about, anyway?" He nodded his chin towards the monitor.

Wes looked up, a quick flick of the eyes, and looked right back down again. "It's, um…well, you happen to be looking at the FBI's newest consultant."

"Consultant?" Travis sat back, couldn't quite keep from smiling. "Yeah?"

The smile that tugged at the edges of Wes's lips was almost shy. "Yeah. They figured I could help them hunt down Nevermore. Everything I know is out of date, but it's still more than anything else they've got, and I'm actually willing to talk. Maybe do some undercover work, if needed…" The smile turned rueful, self-deprecating. "It was either this or spend the rest of my life in jail, so…" He held out his hands, like he was balancing a scale.

"Ah. Good choice."

"Yes, I thought so."

Another silence fell, just as awkward as the first. Wes didn't seem inclined to speak any more than he had to, and he still wouldn't meet Travis's eyes, so Travis tried to find _something_ to say.

"But this is good," he finally settled on, which earned him another quick glance. "You, not being in jail, I mean. We can…I don't know, get lunch sometime or something."

The picking abruptly stopped. "Oh," Wes said, all quiet-like. "They didn't tell you." Another few mutters—something along the lines of _"O'Donnell you asshole"_—before Wes looked up with a tired sigh. "I'm not going to be in LA."

Travis's brain stuttered. "What?"

"They're moving me to New York." Travis opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and Wes went on. "That's where the main bulk of the task force is, and apparently the main branch of the group, remember what O'Donnell said in the briefing? Plus, I'm kind of blown here after the whole Larabee thing, and they figured it would just be better to avoid the fallout from shooting Rupert, so…" He trailed off, looking lost.

Travis wanted to…something. He didn't even know.

The words, when they came, squeaked out painfully. "When are you leaving?"

"Three days." Wes shrugged, went back to picking the couch again. "They had something to finish here, and there's…paperwork issues, I guess. I don't know. They don't really keep me in the loop anymore."

Travis's throat worked again, forcing the words out. "So then…this is it, huh?"

"It's okay." Wes gave him that smile, the one he'd given him at the office building. Reassuring, but heartbreakingly forlorn, like he knew everything was falling apart around him but he wanted Travis to feel better anyway. "Really, it's…it's better this way. You can go back to your life and I can…I can help stop a group of bad people from doing bad things. This is good."

"No it's not, man." Travis shook his head, like he could erase what he was hearing. "We should be doing this together. You and me, that's how we've always worked."

"Yeah, well…" The thread finally came loose in Wes's hand, and he stared at it dumbly. Carefully, he set it back down, but he couldn't put it back where it belonged once it was out there. "It's better this way," Wes repeated, but he didn't believe it for an instant, Travis could tell.

Travis stared at his partner—his former partner—and thought about how they were going to take him all the way across the country, and this wasn't better at all. Not in the _slightest_.

**XXXX**

When he finally left, Wes hugged him again, and Travis clung, afraid this would be the last time he'd ever see Wes again. This _couldn't_ be the end, it just _couldn't_. He refused to let it end like this, after everything they'd worked for, everything they'd been through.

Everything they _could_ have.

He wouldn't let it end like this.

Travis walked to his bike with plans running through his mind.

**XXXX**

**Epilogue:**

Wes sat in the stiff airport seat, shifting uncomfortably. The one halfway decent thing about being escorted by a cadre of federal agents was that people gave him a wide berth. He didn't have to worry about anyone sitting next to him.

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable—a near impossibility, but there was still twenty minutes until the plane started boarding, and he couldn't even stand up without two agents getting tense so it's not like he could browse the shops or anything. With a sigh, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Maybe if he just pretended he was somewhere else…

Someone sat next to him, legs brushing. Wes subtly pulled his away, figuring it was just one of his agent friends.

"Man, I don't know about you, but I am _excited_ about this first class thing."

Wes's eyes snapped open.

Travis flipped through the pamphlet in his hands, sprawling in the cramped seat. "I've never ridden first class. To be fair, I've only been on a plane, like, twice, but still. First class. It's gonna be cool."

"Travis." Wes sat up, staring at his partner. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking at all the stuff I'm going to take advantage of." He flipped to another page. "Ooh, did you know I can have _steak?_ Hell _yeah_ I'm having steak."

"Travis!" Wes grabbed the pamphlet, shoved it in Travis's lap, and ignored the agents watching him like a hawk. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Travis sighed, turning to face him with the longest-suffering face on earth. "I…am waiting for my plane. Which I'm riding first class. I figure I'm making this huge life change, I might as well go out in style, right?"

"_Travis. Marks._"

"_Fine,_ god." Travis slouched in the chair, shoving Wes's hands away so he could flip through the pamphlet again. "I'm going to New York. Okay? Happy now?"

Wes continued to stare. "You're going to New York," he repeated slowly, unable to believe his ears. "Why?"

This time when Travis looked up, he was beaming proudly. "Because, my good man, you are looking at the FBI's newest consultant."

"What?"

"Mm-hmm." Travis sat up, all excited now that he got to share the brilliant part of his story. "I wasn't okay with how I left you. I don't care how much better you think it is, I don't like the thought of you ruining your life because of me. So I talked to Captain Sutton, and he talked to the DA, and _she_ talked to O'Donnell, and O'Donnell talked to Agent MacKenzie—that's the lead on the New York task force, by the way—and we all had a very long conference call and I am now a consultant." He spread his arms triumphantly. "Ta-dah!"

Wes blinked. And blinked again.

Travis lowered his arms. "They're going to evaluate me for a while, see if I have what it takes to become a G-man, but if I pass—and I will, because I'm awesome—they'll induct me into their super-secret boy's band. It's gonna be pretty cool."

"I-I don't…" Wes shook his head. "How did you even manage to pull that off?"

Travis shrugged, leafing through his pamphlet again. "Well, Captain Sutton made a big show of our arrest record—second-highest in the state, did you know that?—and said we worked better together and if you and I were both going after Nevermore, we'd have the whole group dismantled in half the expected time. Also, we may have…_implied_ that I could help keep you in line."

"You." Wes scoffed. "Keep _me_ in line."

"Absolutely." Travis sent him his sunny _I'm harmless and innocent_ face. "It's what I do, you know."

"I'm sorry, _who_ believed that?"

"Well, the captain almost lost it there," Travis admitted, "but he pulled through. The DA didn't care—I think she's just glad to be rid of us, frankly—and O'Donnell and MacKenzie don't know us, so, you know, we win."

Wes shook his head, leaning back with an incredulous laugh. "You are…unbelievable. I can't believe you're doing this. Why are you _doing_ this?"

"Wes." Travis shifted, dropping his hand on Wes's knee. "Come on. This is the _second_ time you've given up everything for me. Do you honestly think I wouldn't do the same for you?"

Wes looked at him, swallowing hard, and really _looked_ at his partner. Wes was willing to shoot a man for him, but Travis…Travis would have stepped in front of that bullet to keep him from killing again. And that…

Same sentiment, different actions.

But _this_ was…

Travis's eyes widened a little. "Oh my god, you _do_. You bastard. I would punch you except I think one of your bodyguards would tase me." He squeezed Wes's knee, gave it a little shake. "I _will_, Wes. Everything I have, I'll give it up for you."

Shaking, Wes settled his hand over Travis's, staring at the place their skin met. "I don't want you to give up anything for me," he said thickly.

Travis leaned in, pressed his forehead against Wes's temple. "Then I'll give it _to_ you," he whispered, voice carrying only far enough for Wes to hear it. "I'll give everything I have to you. But I'm _not_ leaving you behind."

Wes flashed back to the gas station bathroom, and he had to blink back tears. Of everything that could have come from this, to have Travis _here_, beside him…it was more than he could have ever imagined. More than he could hope for.

"You're an idiot," he choked out, and if Travis noticed his voice was thick with tears he refused to shed, he didn't mention it.

"Yeah," Travis said, pulling away—but only so he could sit back in his seat, flipping through his pamphlet. "But I'm an idiot in first class, so I win."

Wes watched his partner—his partner again, when he thought it would never be possible—sitting in the airport chair, his leg pressed against Wes's, their shoulders bumping. It was impossible. An impossible, wonderful thing.

Wes had never felt luckier.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

For the first time since he saw a raven painted on a wall, Wes felt like everything was truly going to be alright.

**OOOO**

**And then they go to New York and have grand adventures **_**White Collar **_**style, haha.**

**Title is taken from the last two lines of Edgar Allan Poe's poem The Raven:**

"_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

_Shall be lifted—nevermore!"_

**The fictional group of hitmen, as well as the raven tattoo, were also inspired by the poem, through the poem itself has absolutely nothing to do with this story.**

**The quote is from the **_**Leverage**_** episode "The Last Dam Job", which is a truly fine episode in a truly fine series. Check it out, yo, because it's fabulous.**

**Theme song for this fic: **_**Angel With A Shotgun**_** by The Cab.**

**I really enjoyed writing this fic, and though it went through several permutations, I'm finally happy with the finished product. I hope you enjoyed it too. Tell me what you thought! Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome!**

**Until next time~!**


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